


All and the lonely hearts

by sureaintmebabe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Development, Drama, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, F/M, Have I mentioned drama?, John's POV, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Empty Hearse, Rebuilding their friendship, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Slowly Built, Unresolved Emotional Tension, then building something new
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:35:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 100,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sureaintmebabe/pseuds/sureaintmebabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-The Empty Hearse.<br/>It was brilliant that Sherlock was back at Baker Street, John supposed. But he lived elsewhere now, he had another home and another life.<br/>He was glad to have his best friend back, he truly was. He just had to deal with the sudden urge he had sometimes to actually kill Sherlock himself. The sudden urge to ask him to please, never leave again.</p>
<p>It was all making him mad. And he had a wedding to plan.</p>
<p>[The tale of two people finding their way to one another again.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone (:  
> This fic begins in an AU in which The Sign of the Three never happened. (Aww, I know, right?) But I wanted to try my hand at rebuilding this mess they threw our way.  
> It's going to take a while.  
> I hope you enjoy the feels and come along for the ride.
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter:  
>  _John didn't like to dwell on how he had missed this. That's why he was trying the best he could to keep the new life he had built for himself in the past two years._

John had been sitting in the living room of 221B for more than half an hour. Not that Sherlock had acknowledged him in any way.

They hadn't exactly being around each other that much since Sherlock had come back from the dead with that terrible impression of a French waiter that left John speechless and with a torrent of unanswered questions.

From the moment John had seen Sherlock again, he knew he wouldn't stand a chance of resisting him any more than the first time. But he also knew that the git would be completely insensitive to any outburst he still felt the need to have. And, oh, he did feel it every now and again, when Sherlock's face popped up in the news, or in the papers, or when thinking about Sherlock at the most ungodly hours, especially at night, losing his sleep over something he couldn't change.

He couldn't change what had happened, he knew that. And even if Sherlock's return had been so challenging, John had to face the fact that being able to be in his presence again was still much better than visiting his grave and feeling his throat close and his eyes sting with the unshed tears he tried to keep to himself.

Right now, sitting on the sofa, flipping through the newspaper, listening to Sherlock's violin, John could sense all the contentment he should be feeling but wasn't able to for reasons he couldn't quite face yet. The slight curve of his own lips was a typical reaction to Sherlock's playing. His mind was at constant war to accept what happened, but he couldn't deny that he had always fitted Sherlock's life and 221B perfectly. It was an instinctive reaction, more than any sign of peace of mind, that made him smile while observing Sherlock's movements on the violin.

John didn't like to dwell on how he had missed this. That's why he was trying the best he could to keep the new life he had built for himself in the past two years. He had a new home, a lovely fiancée, a job that wasn't the most exciting thing in the world, but that paid the bills and had helped him to find his way back to his career. John wasn't a detective. He had had to remind himself every day for the past two years that he was, indeed, a doctor, and that that was the job for him, not running around, chasing suspects with a tall friend in a good coat. John had been almost exclusively Sherlock's doctor for all the time they had lived together. Almost a family doctor, a doctor of a family that consisted of John, Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. When Sherlock had shouted on the abandoned carriage that John had been a soldier as well, it had been a surprise. He hadn't forgotten, but he couldn't deny he had lost many hours of the previous months trying to forget and to adjust to the civilian life that was his reality now.

That exciting life wasn't his anymore. It had not been for quite some time. And the sooner John got used to it, the better it would be for him. Or so he expected.

John had had to readjust completely after Sherlock had died.

His gun wasn't in a drawer on his dresser anymore. The only way he had to know about crimes was to follow them through the media, like any other ordinary citizen. That's was his reality now: just a common person. He had had to accept it.

If he let his mind wander too much now, he would find memories that would certainly damage him more than he liked to think about. He had much to lose if he let Sherlock's madness take him over again just like that.

The doorbell ring snapped John out of his thoughts. He was surprised by the fact that Sherlock stopped playing and was now looking at him with narrowed eyes, holding his bow mid-air.

“Hadn't noticed I was here, had you?” John hid his sad smile with his cup of tea. He didn't know if Sherlock was so used to him that his mind still didn't compute his presence, or if he had got so used to being alone that he dismissed the possibility of another person being near him. John filed this thought together with the others he didn't wish to revisit.

Sherlock looked at him some more, and he was doing that thing again.

“Oh no, no, no. Stop giving me _The Look_ ,” John sighed, refusing to admit that the sudden familiarity had brought a warmth he didn't recognize anymore.

Sherlock actually smirked, the bastard. “I have no idea of what you mean, John. I do hate when you talk in riddles.”

Before John could say anything else, or could flip the cushion at Sherlock's head, Molly Hooper appeared at the door, holding a cooler in her right hand, awkwardly. She shifted from foot to foot, looking at John with a small smile that said a billion things John didn't want to address. He hated that Molly now always had that pained expression on her face when dealing with him, as if she was trying to apologize to him for helping Sherlock, for having his back when John hadn't even been given that option. But what he hated the most was how he couldn't forgive her, no matter how many times she silently tried to apologize. John suspected they would repeat the same dance for a long time.

“I brought what you needed,” she said to Sherlock, who had already ripped the cooler from her hands and was taking it to the kitchen. Molly's flabbergasted expression made John cringe in sympathy for a second.

“Come on, Molly!” Sherlock shouted from the kitchen, which made her cheeks colour an alarming shade of pink. She ran to the kitchen, giving John the sorry look once more and making his skin crawl.

John stood up from the sofa and paced to the window. He had no idea what the hell he was doing there. Mrs Hudson had called him earlier that day, saying that Sherlock had been restless without a case for days, making a mess out of the flat. She was worried that Sherlock had been spending too much time alone, and could be using cocaine again. Apparently she thought that being in Baker Street without John would mean a terrible change for Sherlock. She was obviously wrong.

And John didn't know about the cocaine, he couldn't know. Even with his medical background, John knew that Sherlock could fool any of them, apart from Mycroft. Sherlock had fooled John about being dead, he couldn't imagine any other lie Sherlock wouldn't tell him just for the fun of it.

Besides, John didn't know what he could do about it, even if it were true. He didn't live there anymore; he couldn't enter Sherlock's bedroom and search through his clothes, his sock index, and the pile of crap he kept in a corner of his room. John chuckled and shook his head. Again, memories tried to worm their way up to his head but he kept them at bay, reminding himself that for all he knew, Sherlock could have thrown everything away. John hadn't been in that bedroom for more than two years, and he didn't plan to be back there ever again.

He sent Mrs Hudson a text asking her when she would be back. She had gone to Tesco, probably to get Sherlock those damn biscuits he liked. John knew that she had given up the not-housekeeper policy long ago because Sherlock was now alone in the flat, and he couldn't be bothered with food or such trivialities. John refused to let himself worry about that. He wasn't Sherlock's babysitter, not anymore. It wasn't his job to tell him to eat, or to make him tea, or put him to bed when he had been drugged by a random dominatrix. Sherlock had been fine for two years, he visibly didn't need John to look after him.

John clutched his phone in his hand and decided he should go home. He shot a quick message reassuring Mrs Hudson that Sherlock wasn't alone and turned from the window, without knowing if he should say goodbye to Sherlock and Molly. He stopped on his way to the door because Sherlock was there, looking at him strangely.

“What?” John asked, uncomfortable under Sherlock's gaze.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, reminding John of arguments that ended with him going out for some air. He tried to dismiss Mrs Hudson's voice asking him more than once about their _domestics_.

John felt wrong-footed, as if he had been caught trying to sneak out of the house. And that was the exact truth. He had been. “I'm going home. Mrs Hudson was worried, I just texted her. Now you have Molly,” John stopped short, he didn't even know what he was trying to say. “I mean, Molly is here, so I'll just go,” he finished in a hurry, putting on his coat.

“John,” Sherlock said, simply.

John took a deep breath and tried to ignore the effect that his name in Sherlock's voice, right there in their living room – _Sherlock's_ living room, John corrected himself – had always had on him. And apparently would always have. “Yes?”

Sherlock was looking at him intently, probably reading him like an open book. The attention that used to excite John, now unnerved him, made him worry that Sherlock would see things John no longer gave him the right to see.

“Molly was just delivering some feet,” the detective said, and the corner of his lips turned up. “I don't need a handler. Mrs Hudson's concern is appreciated, but unnecessary.”

“Yes, right,” John said, lamely, trying to shake off the feeling of being caught again. He would just go home, he decided. “Okay, then. I'll leave you to your feet.”

“Do you have something planned?” Sherlock asked, abruptly, because that's how they were around each other now: Sherlock pretending he didn't know absolutely everything that John had going on in his life by simply looking at him, and John pretending he wasn't uncomfortable with the change. John didn't know if he should appreciate it, but he didn't. He felt betrayed and fooled, and he was getting very tired of that kind of feeling.

“You know I don't. You probably know my work schedule,” John said, and it didn't come out as a compliment.

“You can stay,” Sherlock said, then frowned. “Can you stay?”

“What for?” John asked, surprised.

“Just to-” Sherlock stopped to clear his throat. “Just to stay,” he shrugged.

John wished he could say he didn't understand what Sherlock was on about, but he did. The familiarity that ran naturally through them even when they were unaware of it was like an invisible force pulling them together. He still felt it, though he'd been hiding from it. Sherlock may be a sociopath – and John had given up defending him – but John was sure that he could feel it, too.

 _Could he stay?_ , John asked himself. _Could he?,_ after everything that happened? Could he let his guard down and spend his afternoon at Sherlock's flat, remembering things he didn't want to, giving Sherlock the chance to slip in through the cracks in John's shell? He knew his vulnerability was visible even to the most emotionally crippled twat in the whole bloody planet. He shifted from foot to foot, looking at the carpet, flexing his hands inside his pockets.

“Please?” Sherlock asked, using those big eyes that didn't fool John for a second.

“Git,” John said, which prompted a wide smile from Sherlock, one of those that John wished he could tell whether or not they were true. One of those who had once twinkled 'home' in bright lights inside John's head. “You're just going to work on the feet while I sit here, aren't you?”

Sherlock grinned. “It's for an experiment! I couldn't possibly wait.”

John looked at the ceiling and smiled, feeling light headed. Something so small could mean the world to someone as shattered as he had been. “Go on then. I'll busy myself with the telly.”

Turning back, John hesitated. He should sit in one of the armchairs, so he would be nearer the telly and could keep the volume down, but his legs were refusing to take those few steps. He didn't know what would be worse: sitting on the armchair that used to be his and remembering of the many times he sat there in front of Sherlock in companionable silence, or sitting on an undead man’s chair.

“Sit,” Sherlock said, impatiently. He had probably rolled his eyes. “On your chair.”

“Not my chair anymore,” John pointed out, unnecessarily. “I'll just have the couch,” he said, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it.

“I don't understand,” Sherlock said. “Why wouldn't you want to sit on your armchair? It's there, it's yours, it's perfect for your back, it's near the telly. You sat there before.”

“Not for a long time, I didn't.”

Sherlock looked at him as if he were mad. “You sat there on the 5th of November, John, do try to keep up.”

“No, I didn't-” John interrupted himself, astonished. “Yes, I... I sat here before,” he concluded, asking himself how that could be. Indeed he had barged into Sherlock's flat, opened the door without knocking, fluffed his – _not_ his, he reminded himself – union jack pillow and sat there, while Sherlock paced madly, babbling to himself about the train mystery. Just like that. Just... like _that_.

Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “You're even more stupid than you were before. It's your armchair, it'll always be your armchair. Now sit,” he said, pointing to the chair, arrogantly – one could trust Sherlock to be a prick even when trying to do something nice.

John sat because _how could he not?_ Sherlock had an insufferable smirk on his lips. John didn't have any other option at hand, so he flung the union jack cushion on his head. “Piss off.”

It served him right.

 

* * *

 

John opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the pain on his neck. He rubbed his face, and yawned, taking in the strange surroundings. He was at Baker Street and that was a strange view for him. For a moment he didn't know what had been a dream, and what had been real life. The noises coming from the kitchen reminded him that Sherlock was back, experimenting on feet just four feet away.

He cracked his neck and stood up, stretching his back. The telly was still on, so he turned it off and decided that if he was going to stay at Baker Street for a few more hours, he could very well make himself some tea. He was tired of pretending he didn't know his way around it.

He entered the kitchen and was greeted by the image of Sherlock Holmes hunched over his microscope, of course. John had been in the kitchen before, he knew, but he couldn't help the sudden throat-clogging feeling that reached him every time he found himself being reacquainted with his previous life. Once more, he thought about how everything had seemed normal, comfortable when he had been there working side by side with Sherlock again. It had been like he was home, which only served to prove him that he shouldn't let his guard down like that. Sherlock had an unique way of getting to John, a particular pull that John had never encountered before and knew he never would.

He shook his head to dismiss the cloud of thoughts and busied himself with putting the kettle on and getting the mugs and the sugar from the cupboard. He hesitated before deciding to open the fridge to look for milk. He suddenly hated not knowing if they had milk or not. _Not they_ , he thought. _Not.They._

Oddly enough, the fridge had an ordinary amount of food and John was not greeted by any severed heads, which he chose to take as an improvement. He made Sherlock a cup of tea, without registering the muscle memory of it.

“Yes, I know, muriatic acid,” Sherlock said, out of the blue.

John knew it wasn't meant for him, so he just ignored and finished storing everything in its proper place.

“Yes, from hydrochloric acid! Shut up, John,” Sherlock said, in a hushed tone that made John turn over to face him. John thought he might have been noisy, but Sherlock wasn't really talking to him. At least not to the real him.

John walked over and put the mug on the table with more force than it was necessary, trying to snap Sherlock out of his thoughts. John was feeling particularly bold and didn't give a damn about annoying Sherlock in the middle of an experiment. He had just been told to shut up, anyway, he could pretend he had a reason to be pissed.

Sherlock seemed completely lost. He looked at John and then at the mug beside his microscope. And then at John again. And at the tea again. And at John.

“You are here,” Sherlock said, sounding small, and John hated, hated that he couldn't trust any of it.

“Yes, I am,” John answered, indicating Sherlock's mug. “Drink it.”

Sherlock tried to act nonchalant, but took the mug, anyway. He sipped the tea and closed his eyes. John liked to think he was savouring the first tea John had made him after everything, and the fact that John would never forget how he took his tea.

“So,” John began. “Talking to me when I'm not here again?” And John asked himself why he felt a bit smug about it. Sherlock didn't look at him, and pretended he hadn't said a word. But John couldn't control the sour way his mind was taking. “Has it ever made any difference, me being here or not, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked at him as if he didn't understand the question. His lips were parted as if he was waiting for his thoughts to come out of it at once. Of course he didn't understand, John was being silly.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said, simply.

“Right,” John said, awkwardly, because he didn't even know why he had asked him that in the first place. “So, what are you working on?”

Sherlock began to tell him all about a mystery murder that had happened twenty years ago and had never been solved. He told him about how those feet were helping him to discover where the victim had been before she was killed and John listened to everything attentively.

Two hours later, Sherlock had finished his experiment and they were sat at the kitchen table, looking afraid of disrupting the air that had favoured the quiet hours they had spent near each other. It had been more than they had done yet. It was at the same time warming and petrifying to John. A natural ambiguity of being around Sherlock, he supposed.

“Are you hungry? We could go to Angelo's,” Sherlock said, strained.

John didn't know what to say. Going to Angelo's seemed much more than he could do at that moment, and even so, he wanted it, craved it. They would enter, Angelo would come and greet them by the door, he would hug Sherlock, tell him he had never believed the lies in the press, maybe he would even hug John and tell him he would fetch a candle for the table. John would tell him that he wasn't Sherlock's date, and it wouldn't make any difference. Yes, it was too much. He couldn't do that. It would open a Pandora box he knew he couldn't close. As if on cue, his phone buzzed with an incoming text. Mary asking him about dinner. That was his life now, he had to remember.

“Maybe some other time,” he told Sherlock, not looking at him and walking to the living room. Sherlock was right behind him. “Okay?” He asked, unnecessarily. Of course Sherlock was okay, he didn't need John to babysit him. John felt idiotic.

Sherlock, though, smiled as if he knew something John didn't. Nothing new. “Yes, all right. Some other time.”

“Right,” John said. “I'll see you, then.”

John run down the stairs without looking back. Being afraid around Sherlock was not something he was used to, and it still left a foul taste in his mouth. He would have dinner with Mary, that was his life now, that was his choice. Mary.

John felt his phone buzzing again and took it out of his pocket.

**Yes, I'll see you, John. –SH**

 

 _Bugger_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> “We can always postpone the wedding, you know,” Mary said, as if this was something to be discussed lightly while drying the dishes.

John cleaned the sole of his shoes on the doormat. As soon as he opened the door, he could smell homemade cooking. Mary seldom cooked, so it made him smile. He hung up his coat and took of his shoes, letting his toes feel the cold floor and letting his new home ground him. It wasn't exactly his new home, but after spending the afternoon at Baker Street, everything else seemed out of place.

John seemed out of place. Or rather felt out of place. How lucky of a guy was he that now nowhere felt right enough, he asked himself, sighing and heading to the kitchen.

Mary was peeking into the oven. The rare sight made a new burst of warmth rush through John and he was glad for it.

“What is all this?” He asked, hugging Mary from behind and inhaling her familiar scent. He gave her a kiss right behind her left ear.

She grinned and turned over to give him a proper kiss. She tasted like the wine she was having while cooking, and her cheeks had a lovely pinkness to them. “I felt like cooking,” she said simply, as if it explained everything.

“Okay,” John said and decided to leave her be. “How was your day?”

Mary poured John a glass of wine and offered to him. “Very good. I met the florist, and met Kathy to gossip about my dress. You know, wedding stuff,” she smirked.

“Oh,” John said, trying to remember if he was supposed to have gone with her to meet the florist. He did remember something about that. _But wasn't it the following week?_

“Don't worry,” she told him, while caressing the frown that had appeared between his brows. “I took care of it. You would have been bored by it. _I_ was bored by it!”

John thanked the gods above for Mary, but wished he had gone anyway. It was their wedding, he wanted to have a proper part in it. Mary was smiling at him. “What?” He asked, sipping his wine and sitting on the chair that was nearer her.

“As long as you are there to say 'yes,’ it's all good,” she laughed.

John laughed, but it seemed strange in his own ears. He had asked her to marry him, he should have been there to meet the florist. It was no use asking for her hand and leaving everything for her to sort out. “I'll be there.”

While Mary finished the cooking, John busied himself setting up the table. Since she was cooking, the occasion asked for their finest plates and silverware. Not for the first time that day, John knew that he should be feeling a contentment that was right in front of him, but he couldn't grasp it. He blamed it on the strange day he had had. Being around Sherlock for that long, being around his previous life that long, was certainly enough to leave him unbalanced. It was understandable. He decided he shouldn't beat himself up about it.

Everything would fit in the end, he hoped. His previous life, his new life. Never mind both things couldn't seem more unfitting to John if they tried. He would make it work, he told himself. _He would make it work._

“I will take a shower,” Mary said, snapping John out of his thoughts and making him cringe by the fact that he had just zoned out.

“Okay,” he said, trying to pretend his mind had been into it all along. “Should I keep an eye at whatever it is that you're cooking?”

“I set the timer,” she said, already walking out of the kitchen and heading to their bedroom. “Don't eat without me!”

John laughed. “I'll try!”

While listening to the sounds of the shower, John went to their bedroom and changed into his pyjama bottoms, choosing a random old t-shirt to go with it. He felt drained, even though he hadn't really done anything all day. He had sat all afternoon at Baker Street, sipping cups of tea and trying not to get swallowed by the walls and the carpet. Now, sat on his bed, he thought about his old one, the one that had been a flight of stairs from him the whole afternoon, emanating a menacing cloud of unresolved tension. He had once been happy there. He knew he had been. Maybe Sherlock's coming back should have made him feel lighter about all the dread he had felt for two years, but it hadn't. John found it awfully unfair that having his friend back didn't erase all the suffering John had been through.

Maybe there was something wrong with him, he thought. Maybe he wasn't a nice person, maybe he didn't have it in him to forgive and forget. Mrs Hudson seemed so happy having Sherlock around again. Lestrade seemed over them moon at having his favourite consultant to help him again. People that had been tricked just like him, but could adjust to Sherlock's presence in a way John couldn't. He just couldn't.

But then again, _how could he?_ John had had a completely different experience of Sherlock Holmes than those that Lestrade or even Mrs Hudson had. When Sherlock had died – no, when Sherlock had _left_ , John corrected himself – Lestrade had lost a colleague, maybe a friend. Mrs Hudson, for all her love of Sherlock, had lost a presence that she had had now and then, during tea time or while randomly visiting to straighten things up and remind them that she wasn't their housekeeper.

John had had all those experiences, yes, but he had had all the others as well, all the others no one had had any part in it. John had seen Sherlock lose control, had seen Sherlock almost explode himself in their kitchen, had been there when he needed patching up, scolding and company.

Lestrade certainly had been there to do the arresting after they had caught a suspect. But John had jumped on the freezing Thames after Sherlock to save him as many times as he had needed. John had been the one there to tell Sherlock to run and leave the pool while he still could.

And Mrs Hudson had been there to bring the tea tray with her lovely biscuits, for sure. But John had been the one who would make Sherlock's tea at least twice a day everyday, and the one to force toasts and beans down Sherlock's throat, never mind how difficult he was being about it.

John had always been the _one_.

Well, not anymore.

Mrs Hudson and Lestrade had been happy with Sherlock's return. They were glad Sherlock had jumped from a rooftop to apparently save them. But John couldn't shake off the questions that filled his mind since the very moment Sherlock had approached him with that absolutely ludicrous moustache. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were fine with Sherlock's motives for leaving, but John could not forget that he had left, in the first place. He was glad, for sure. Of course. He had asked for him not to be dead, Sherlock had heard him. But, before that, Sherlock hadn't given a second thought to the fact that he was leaving John behind.

And that was fine, really, John thought, when he heard the shower being turned off. That was fine. It wasn't his place to ask anything from Sherlock. He had been a flatmate. He had been convenient. Maybe he had been _just_ that, a convenient assistant, a gun at hand, a doctor, a maid. Molly had been convenient when Sherlock needed to vanish, and John had not. Just like that, he was left behind. He tried to loosen the fists his hands had tightened into without him noticing and took a deep breath. It was useless to let his mind wander like that, no good could come from it. Nonetheless, he found himself thinking about everything over and over again, while working, or eating, or when he should be sleeping.

While everyone seemed so happy to be there for Sherlock now that he was back, John could not help thinking about how he had wanted to be there all along.

No use to it now, he thought, going to the kitchen before Mary could get out of the bathroom. She did have an incredible ability to see right through him, though not as well as Sherlock.

 _No use_ , John reminded himself. No use to think about it now.

 

* * *

 

The chicken pot pie Mary had prepared was delicious, John couldn't remember the last time he’d had a homemade meal that tasted as good. It was a pity the food seemed to get stuck in his throat. It was also a pity that the more he tried to pay attention to what Mary was saying, the more out of place John felt.

 _Just one day_ , he thought. It was unbelievable what _one day_ in Sherlock’s presence could do. Without any foreign rush of adrenaline, it was blatantly obvious how they were failing to find a way to get comfortable around each other again. One day. And however awkward it had been, John couldn't help the feeling in the pit of his stomach that made him ask himself if he shouldn't go running back to Baker Street. Or if maybe he shouldn't just run away from the country.

“How was Sherlock?” Mary asked, out of the blue. John _thought_ it was out of the blue; he didn't know. He hadn't been paying much attention.

“Er,... Good, good. You know how he is,” he said, wincing at his own vagueness. Mary was not stupid. It was the first thing he had noticed about her. She was beautifully clever.

“Any crime solving for your blog?” She asked, with a wide smile that made it impossible for John not to smile back. Maybe it was her smile that John had noticed first. Yes, definitely the smile.

“No,” John shook his head, while forcing another piece of pie into his mouth and swallowing it slowly. “He was experimenting on some feet, if you're interested in that, though.”

Mary laughed joyously and cleaned her mouth on the napkin. “Feet? Of course he was.”

“Some mystery murder that happened twenty years ago, that's what he told me. Apparently now he knew that the victim had met someone in a place with cleaning products around. She had some kind of acid on her clothes. Most important, her stepfather owned a factory of cleaning products,” John rambled, noticing how he had paid attention to everything Sherlock had told him. Just as he always had.

“Oh, brilliant,” Mary agreed. “So will they arrest him?”

John laughed at Mary's interest. He could relate. “He's been dead for ten years,” and he laughed harder than he had the whole day. Mary joined him.

They continued the meal in silence. John was cataloguing everything Sherlock had told him about the Feet Lady – _terrible title for a blog entry_ , John chastised himself – and mused if he could write about it. Maybe something as an interlude between talking about their cases, whenever they got at those again. John didn't know. John wasn't used to knowing these days. He wasn't always at hand, he had his own place, his own life. His major occupation wasn't being Sherlock's doctor and sidekick anymore.

 _No use_ , he remembered himself again. Why was he thinking about it that much? Sherlock was there at Baker Street. He was in London again, he was less than twenty minutes away, not in Siberia, not in Serbia, not in France. Sherlock was there, among them again. Why couldn't John just bloody rejoice for a moment?

“...And then I told him I didn't want daises because, well, the wedding is not in the morning. I always thought daises fitted morning weddings. And, oh my god, you're not actually listening to anything I am saying, are you?” Mary smiled, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Seriously, John, did something happen?”

“No,” John answered her, honestly. Nothing had happened. Nothing. He didn't know why suddenly he couldn't enjoy a meal in his house with his soon-to-be wife. It was like coming back from the war all over again. “I'm so sorry. I'm just a bit out of it, I guess,” he took her hand across the table and entangled their fingers. The ring was perfect for her. She was perfect for John. This life, he thought, _this_ was perfect for him.

They talked some more about Mary's day. She told John about their florist, a bloke named George who had a funny French accent, and who was on the verge of hysterics for being responsible for the flowers of the wedding of John Watson, the companion of the famous Hat Detective. John didn't know if he should laugh or cry for all of a sudden being _that_ John Watson again. He couldn't decide if it was brilliant or terrifying. Probably both, considering the fact that Sherlock Holmes was... well, Sherlock Holmes.

Mary continued to tell John about the preparations for the wedding. They had some places to visit in the following week, since they had yet to choose where the reception would happen. Mary had chosen a spring wedding, so she was all for a sunny village. John agreed to that. He agreed to everything without properly listening to any of it. He felt he was cheating, but he couldn't make his mind stay there, it was floating like a balloon. Mary had probably noticed, but had given up getting his attention. John vaguely asked himself if she had actually called his name and he had simply ignored it.

When they had finished the meal, John was in charge of the washing. Mary stood beside him drying the glasses and the plates. He could feel the sudden change in the room. Everything seemed even tenser.

“We can always postpone the wedding, you know,” Mary said, as if this was something to be discussed lightly while drying the dishes.

“What?” John asked, holding a plate under the water and splashing water all over himself. “Why would we do that?”

“We don't have to,” she told him, giving him a kiss on the cheek and turning off the tap before John actually drowned himself. “I just thought that maybe you two needed some time to readjust.”

“We... two?” John asked, even though he knew exactly who the other one was. Always getting in the way, the arse. Even when he wasn't in the room. _Especially_ when he wasn't in the room, John thought, bitterly.

Mary rested her head on John's left shoulder, taking care of not to put too much weight on it. “Yes, John, you two. A few months wouldn't make that much difference. And you can readjust.”

“I don't need to readjust,” John affirmed, stubbornly, because he really didn't. If he was honest with himself he wanted to get the fuck on with it.

“Maybe he does,” Mary said simply, now looking at John.

John snorted because the thought of Sherlock needing time to readjust to anything related to their wedding didn't make any sense to him. “Why would _he_ need time to readjust?”

“Well, he just came back and discovered his partner has a new partner, maybe it's difficult for him.” Mary was being so reasonably calm that listening to what she was saying was almost giving John a whiplash.

“I wasn't his partner,” John said, out of habit, and then felt completely idiotic for saying that to his own fiancée.

Mary laughed. “Of course you were his partner, and you still are. That’s why you may need time to readjust.”

“Have you met him at all? He is fine, he is brilliant. It won't change anything,” John said, placing a kiss upon Mary's nose, and trying for the life of him to dismiss the subject. He couldn't just shut Mary up, she wouldn't stand for it, he knew.

“Well, I just thought...” she trailed off, looking at John with narrowed eyes. “Well, I just thought I should say something. You two are being bloody stupid about all this.”

John was surprised by the sudden swearing. He sighed and decided to just concede to Mary's kindness, unnecessary as it was.“Thank you, love,” he kissed her again. “But we really don't need more time.”

John honestly had no idea of how much time he would need to readjust to Sherlock. He had no idea if that was possible at all.

 

* * *

 

It was after midnight and John laid wide awake beside Mary, who was sound asleep. They had watched some telly and John had given her a foot massage, partly because he was self-conscious for not giving her the attention she deserved during dinner, partly because he liked admiring her figure while she made little noises of contentment. John loved to bask in her, in everything they had built together and in how easy it was just _being_ with her.

It had never been a hard decision, to go out with her and then to decide to marry her. They hadn't gone on any awkward dates, nor had any forced chatter. They had been working together for a few weeks and they'd fallen in love, just like that, easily, softening the terrible times John had had after Sherlock's death. Mary had carved her own place in John's life, and had changed everything.

He was certain he was the luckiest man on the planet, so it was damned unfair that instead of cuddling up with his lovely fiancée, he was lying there, feeling uneasy. Suddenly, John asked himself what Sherlock would be doing at that moment. Probably playing the violin - and the memory left John feeling a sort of hollowness in his chest that took his breath away for a moment. He wanted to listen to it again, even though he knew the sound would break his heart, reminding him of the many times he had awoken in the middle of the night swearing to God he had heard a violin in his living room.

A living room that had never had Sherlock in it. And that fact had made John think he was losing his mind more often than not.

His therapist probably would have thought that Sherlock's death would mean a new round of PTSD panic attacks and psychosomatic limps, but that wasn't what had happened, not really. Sherlock had been rather like a ghost who haunted him without being kind enough to require any triggers. Dead, Sherlock had been as demanding as ever.

 _Well, not anymore_ , John supposed, trying to fluff his pillow.

Now they tried to keep out of each other's way. John because he still didn't know how to sail in the madness of his life. Sherlock because, quite frankly, he had had two whole years to learn to make do without John.

Before John could let himself drown in misplaced self-pity, his phone buzzed, vibrating the whole dresser. He would have been glad for the distraction if it weren't so unusual for him to get calls in the middle of the night. There were times in which they had been normal, but not anymore. John stood up, dreading to hear Harry's voice on the other side, slurping and stammering and audibly drunk. Maybe this time somebody would be contacting him from a hospital.

The name flashing in the screen filled John with a completely different sense of dread. One a thousand times worse.

"Where is he?" He asked as soon as he picked up the phone. There was a bit of commotion coming from the other side of the line and John's heart clutched in his chest. He rose his voice. "Where is he, Greg? What happened?"

 _"Brixton. We came across this murder..._ ~~_-_ ~~ _"_

Even before Greg could start explaining it properly, John knew that something had gone wrong. He ran to dress himself. While his mind tried to understand what Greg was telling him, his body began a ritual that could only be explained by instinct. He reached to the box in the back of the wardrobe, and in a few swift moves, he checked the ammo and stuck the gun in the back of the jeans he had put on. The Browning wasn't properly cleaned or oiled, but it would have to do. It had saved Sherlock too many times to fail them now.

_"Sherlock didn't tell me, but I think he was on to something, and now my people discovered the guy is much more dangerous than we expected. The guy is up to his neck with a dangerous cartel, John, I don't think Sherlock knows that-"_

Of course he bloody knew that, he was Sherlock Holmes, he knew everything, John cursed while hastily fastening his shoes. What Greg meant to say was that Sherlock had known exactly how dangerous it was, but he had ran there anyway, because he was reckless and completely stupid, never mind his brilliancy.

_"I've sent some cars, but I am caught up at a crime scene with the bloody Chief Superintendent. And you know Sherlock, the officers won't be able to do much-”_

Greg was cut off by someone talking to him and John was torn between waking Mary up and leaving a note. He decided to leave a note, because he didn't want to lose any more time explaining anything.

“ _You have to go after him, John. Mycroft is out of the country, I didn't know-”_

"Send me the _bloody_ address, Greg,” John said, angry that Greg felt the need to convince him, as if he would leave Sherlock alone at a time like this. “I'm running there now, I'm taking a cab. I'll try to call him. Leave a bloody ambulance available, I don't care what it takes,” he said while scrawling a messy note to Mary.

John hung up without waiting for Greg to say anything else and barged out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me clarify something. I'm terrified of Mary right now, so let's see how this right here goes, all right?
> 
> Send me a line if you have any ideas. (:


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter:
> 
> "John felt his heart race fast seeing Sherlock perched there. It was too soon for fucking walls and great heights in John's opinion. He had had two years to _not_ get over that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!  
> I will probably be changing the update day to thrusday!
> 
> Thank you all for the kudos and stuff (:

John held himself straight in the back of the cab. The driver did everything he could to earn the additional fee John had promised to pay if he made there in less than half an hour. John's hands were perfectly steady, as they always were when dealing with all things _Sherlock_.

Sherlock who was not answering his phone. Of course he wasn't, because he was Sherlock Holmes, the indestructible genius who didn't need anyone.

John swore under his breath and looked out of the window. Sherlock had dismantled Moriarty's web all over the world by himself, and maybe he thought he didn't need John by his side, but John would be damned if Sherlock would get rid of him that easily in London.

To say that John had been hurt when he discovered he had been deliberately left behind before was an understatement. Even now, running off to follow Sherlock's trail, John asked himself what good that would do. Greg seemed to think that John would know how to find Sherlock, that he would have a better insight of how Sherlock's mind worked. Maybe, John thought. Maybe that was right, but it was hard to believe it after being played for two years.

Maybe if John had permitted himself to look for clues then, he could have had figured it out. But that would have cost him the last bit of sanity he still had.

John sighed and rubbed his face, trying to erase the complete exhaustion he felt lurking in. He tried to call Sherlock again, and again all that he heard was the recording of Sherlock’s posh voice.

_"You've reached Sherlock Holmes, Consulting detective. Leave a message and don't be boring, or I shall delete it."_

_Insufferable poncy twat_. John smiled despite himself. He remembered the time when Sherlock's voice mail consisted of the two sentences: 'You've reached Sherlock Holmes. If you're going to be boring, call John Watson instead.' That had left John in charge of the incoming cases for quite some time, and by the end of it, he was almost siding with Sherlock on the whole 'please, don't be boring' mantra. Of course, Sherlock hadn't bothered to change the message back for six whole months.

Good old times.

Not that old. Undeniably _good_ , John thought _._

The cabbie managed to get John there in thirty-five minutes, but John decided he deserved the tip anyway. Getting out of the car, John remembered that this was where everything had begun. Not the first meeting, but the first time he had seen Sherlock in his element being majestic, dramatic, a bit ridiculous, but charming in a way only Sherlock Holmes could behave in a crime scene. After that Mycroft couldn't have kept John away from 221B, even if that had been his motivation for the first kidnapping.

John looked around. The streets were mostly empty, and a dead silence engulfed everything. It was better that way; Sherlock wasn't the only one used to moving silently. Greg had sent the number of a building that apparently worked as the general headquarters of the cartel to which the man Sherlock had gone to confront belonged. It was particularly distinct from the rest of the houses in that street, it seemed less homely somehow and more business like.John supposed that Sherlock would have noticed right away that something was amiss.

Or maybe he had known something was amiss right from the beginning. Probably. He had probably run off to face a whole cartel by himself, only armed with his _delightful_ personality. John could almost hear Sherlock's thoughts: ' _What could go wrong?'_

Stupid man.

John lurked on the corner of the street, observing the building. He couldn't see Sherlock anywhere and he felt suddenly afraid that his own hastiness had put the detective in danger. He prayed to god that Sherlock's phone hadn't given him away.

Started by a sudden noise, John crouched behind a car and observed the house with more attention. He couldn't see what was going inside it, since the windows were too high, but he saw three cars leaving the car park and then turning the other corner of the street, leaving the neighbourhood. If lucky, Sherlock had waited for that moment to get out of hiding and investigate. It was like him to hide in plain sight with that ridiculous coat and ridiculous collar turned up to hide his own pale face. As good camouflage as any, John supposed. He stood up without taking his eyes out of the house.

Now that he was there, he asked himself how the bloody hell would he enter the house. The gate was now closed and Sherlock had always been the one in charge of the lock picking. John had learned a thing or two, of course, but he had put a limit at buying himself a kit like the one Sherlock proudly carried in his inner pocket.

The problem was solved for John before he could take a step ahead.

There, on the wall, was Sherlock, balancing himself like a ballerina in tightrope. John was confused for a moment, but his confusion turned to panic when he understood why Sherlock was walking over a thirty foot tall wall. There was a guy running after him – probably the guy Sherlock was there to investigate. John felt his heart race fast seeing Sherlock perched there. It was too soon for fucking walls and great heights in John's opinion. He had had two years to _not_ get over that.

His first instinct was to shoot the guy. John was too far away to be of more immediate assistance. He was drawing near, but didn't want to scare the suspect or make Sherlock lose his balance. He couldn't simply start shooting from the street; he didn't know who was inside the house, he didn't want to draw attention to himself.

John looked over and felt his blood run cold. The man was now holding a gun straight at Sherlock's head.

Well, that decided the matter.

It all happened too fast.

John shot the attacker's hand to make him drop his gun, but the guy took his own shot. At the same time, he and Sherlock fell from the wall. The suspect fell on the street, Sherlock fell inside the house.

“No,” John said, trying to get his voice to work, since his body was failing him. He was running, he knew, but he couldn't feel the wind on his cheeks, or the ground under his feet. It was like trying to run underwater.

 _The wall wasn't that high_ , he told himself. It wasn't.

The suspect was lying unconscious on the floor, and his gun had fallen near him. He had been knocked unconscious, and his hand was bleeding, but nothing serious. Even without practice for so long, John was still a crack shot.He instinctively grabbed the guy's gun and stuck it in his pocket. His mind had one and only one aim.

The gate was still locked, but John's priorities had changed. He shot the lock twice without worrying about the noise and prayed for someone to call the police. His heart was threatening to climb out of his throat.

The wall was not that high. _It was not._

He kicked the gate open and found Sherlock trying to stand up from a bunch of rubbish bags he apparently had fallen into. He was grunting and sounded dizzy, but had no visible injury and John felt the rush of relief weaken his legs. He shook his head and set to work crouching beside Sherlock.

“Easy, easy,” he told him, while checking for any strains or concussion. He tucked his gun back in his jeans and held Sherlock's neck tenderly. The detective's eyes were unfocused, and he blinked slowly.

“John?” He asked, confused.

“Who else would it be?” John said, helping Sherlock to sit up. “Did you hit your head? Are you hurt?”

“No,” Sherlock said, sounding annoyed that John had the need to ask such boring and trivial questions. “What are you doing here?”

“ _What I am_...” John stopped himself and sighed. He thought it was bloody obvious what he was doing there. “What do you _think_ I'm doing here? Are you mad, running after a whole fucking cartel like this?”

“Stop shouting,” Sherlock said. John thought he had meant it to be petulant, but it had sounded more like a request. He had definitely hit his head. John jumped into looking for any sign of concussion, keeping his left hand on the detective's neck. He was vaguely aware of his thumb brushing over the end of one of Sherlock's curls.

John felt suddenly light headed after listening to Sherlock's voice. He wasn't used to see Sherlock falling and then be able to still talk to him.

There wasn't an injury now, but if John closed his eyes for too long, he could see the bloodied pavement. The wrist he was holding now in his right hand was warm and alive, but if John just took a bit longer to open his eyes again after blinking, he could feel the dead pulse on the tip of his fingers.

He was being transported to the past, when he had taken Sherlock's pulse and for a second his mind had fooled him that there was something. His rushing blood had made his own fingertips throb and he had hoped, for a second, despite his own medical knowledge, that the pulse was Sherlock's.

All sound became background noise and John had the impression that he was the one falling.

“John!” Sherlock was staring with round, worried eyes.

John wanted to say that Sherlock was the one who needn't shout, but his mouth was dry and his chest tight. He sat on the ground and breathed deeply, counting and trying to get a hold of his own damn person before he embarrassed himself even more in front of Sherlock. John was well aware of the signs of a panic attack. It had been months since he had last had one, though. That was why he had asked Mary to marry him, because he thought he was better.

“John,” Sherlock said, and made it sound like a question. Or at least John thought so. His perception was compromised.

He forced himself to look straight into Sherlock's eyes because he needed to _see_ him, needed to know that he was there, insufferably and amazingly _alive_. He had to force himself to do it, but the fear of closing his eyes overlaid the rest. He moved his thumb from the errant curl to Sherlock's pulse point just to feel the beat, just to reassure himself that it was not a mind trick, not this time. He took a great number of soothing breaths. Sherlock was calling his name over and over again, but he remained stock-still. John basked in the voice, feeling glad for another reassurance.

Slowly, he came back to himself.

Slowly, he realized the position they were in. The distance between them wasn't more than five inches, he could feel the warm puff of breath leaving Sherlock's lungs on the tip of his nose.

He retreated his hands from Sherlock's body and rubbed his sweaty palms over his jeans. He couldn't remember exactly when he had sat, but there he was, with Sherlock right in front of him. After John freed him, he moved and sat shoulder to shoulder with John, resting his back on the wall. They could hear the sirens at distance. Someone had called the police at last.

“Where's the suspect?” John asked, because he'd be damned if he would sit there and talk to Sherlock about his _Sherlock-induced_ panic attacks. That wouldn't do at all.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away. “I don't know.”

“You don't know?!” John said, stunned. It wasn't like Sherlock to admit he didn't know things, let along things about the crimes he was currently investigating.

“Well, I fell from a wall, didn't I?” Sherlock stood up and paced in front of John. The movement was a familiar one. “I didn't even think—” he stopped talking, but continued pacing.

John Watson had a few talents. One of the most important ones was being able to save Sherlock Holmes – at least when he was allowed to help. Sherlock seemed lost, and even if John didn't know exactly why _(Because of the panic attack? Had he made the connection? Because he had fallen of a wall? Because he had lost the suspect? Because John was there?)_ , he knew how that worked.

John took a deep breath and stood up again, stretching his muscles and taking his gun again. The police sirens were very close, but he knew Sherlock needed some resemblance of normalcy at that moment. He did too, if he was honest to himself. Sherlock gave him a small smile, but John could see the fire lit up on those eyes. He knew them too well. He suspected his weren't very different.

“Come on,” John said, with a motion of his head, indicating that Sherlock should follow him and not the other way around. Oddly enough, Sherlock promptly complied. “The game is on and all that,” John said, and heard Sherlock let out a giggle. Here they were again, John thought. One had fallen off a wall and the other had just felt the beginning of a panic attack, and they were both giggling. Whatever the hell was wrong with them, John sighed to himself, he was glad there were two of them again.

 

* * *

 

Lestrade was looking at them in a funny way.

It had all been a bit ridiculous, John agreed, but he didn't need to mock them.

They had left the car park ready to chase the suspect and had stepped right into a street full of police cars and worried neighbours. Lestrade had already cuffed the suspect, who had been trying to run away when he arrived there.

Sherlock and John had almost been shot by mistake. John didn't know why they hadn't thought about the danger of showing themselves in front of the police with a gun at hand. Were they so engrossed in their own selves? John knew the feeling, but he was stunned by Sherlock's distraction.

It was easy enough for John to understand then. Sherlock had been giving him space and something else to think about after the panic attack. John was glad for it.

They giggled for minutes after the whole ordeal and Lestrade looked at them as if they were mad, which was so familiar that it left John feeling a little self-conscious. There he was, once again, behaving like a teenage boy, running around with his best mate, terrorizing the neighbourhood instead of doing his homework.

Or going back to his wife, for that matter.

It was a very strange feeling for him, as if this life wasn't his anymore to live and he didn't have the right to live it. _And how bloody unfair it was that he had gotten a second chance and couldn't enjoy it?_

He stopped thinking about it and focused on Sherlock while he explained to Greg how he had deduced that the the suspect – one Charles, apparently – had been lying all along. He had been arrested for a single kidnapping that was registered as his first offence, but it had been obvious that he was into something bigger. At least it had been for Sherlock. Greg didn't seem much surprised by the fact that it hadn't been obvious to him. Of course he hadn't noticed Charles' fine clothes, his brand new watch, his suspicious tan and the foreign bills in his wallet. The guy had been _clearly_ implicated in an enormous scheme to get cocaine inside British borders. Colombian pesos, tan, nice clothes... Sherlock said it hadn't been a difficult leap, that he had seen those signs before.

John had too. It made his heart ache remembering those days in which the pool hadn't happened yet, in which they didn't know Moriarty would burn the heart out of Sherlock. John still asked himself what that had been about.

As for his own heart, John knew it had been burned to a crisp. He was suddenly _glad_ for having a second chance.

Sherlock continued to pace about, all billowing coat and strings of deductions. Greg still had that funny look on his face, but he wasn't looking at Sherlock, he was looking at John. John thought the DI was remembering their first time together.

The three of them had gathered around a corpse one day and John's life had changed completely.

Sherlock finished his deductions and to all their surprise, it was _Greg_ the one who said it.

“Brilliant,” he stated, once again looking at John. They smiled knowingly.

John hid his smile behind his hand and thought about how much he had missed _this_. He silently thanked Greg for being able to say what he yet couldn't.

He had never thought it would be possible to miss feeling stupid, but the truth was that being around Sherlock had always allowed him to take action, to do things instead of having to waste time analysing whatever it was they had been investigating. He trusted Sherlock one hundred percent, and was willing to shoot in whichever direction he pointed because one couldn't get cleverer than Sherlock.

The detective was looking between Greg and John, frowning. When he made the connection and smiled too, he seemed strangely embarrassed by it. He cleared his throat.

“Well, do you know that you keep saying that out loud?” And when he lifted his head again, his eyes flew directly to John's.

John knew the silence had been enough to say that there would never come a time when he wasn't going to think that, even if his throat was too tight to say it. He thought Sherlock understood too. They shared tiny nods, and kept their eyes on each other's. Sherlock was probably trying to deduce him. John was just unable to look elsewhere.

“Well, off you go,” said Lestrade, interrupting the silence.

John and Sherlock frowned, finally taking his eyes off each other and looking at Greg for an explanation. “Don't you want our statements?” John asked.

“Nah, it can wait ‘til tomorrow. The two of you _will_ show up tomorrow at Scotland Yard, won't you? So, _that's_ settled,” Greg said, not leaving room for objections. John wasn't stupid, he knew what he was being tricked into. He was torn between being mad about this or about the fact that he needed to be tricked in the first place.

Sherlock cleared his throat again. John made a note to look for signs of a cold or infection. The detective seemed to be doing that a lot lately. “We'll see,” he said simply.

John wouldn't say that his heart fell, that would be too emotional for it. And he didn't have the right to be disappointed. He was the one who had been running away from Sherlock since he had come back, it was only natural that Sherlock would prefer to do this alone.

Lestrade had walked away and started talking to some neighbours.

John thought it was time he headed back home. One could only pretend everything was the same for so long.

“So, I'd better be off then—” he said, at the same time Sherlock asked “Are you hungry?”

Sherlock's face fell – and John was sure it was a genuine emotion. “Oh,” he said. “Of course.”

John could just walk away, he had done it before. He could pretend again that it would be enough to shut out the gut feeling that connected him to Sherlock. He turned his body away and watched the street ahead.

He could go home and continue to feel hollow, restless, miserable, no doubt. But he was so tired of that.

An hour earlier, Sherlock had fallen from a wall and John had had a panic attack but everything had seemed a thousand times better than all the hours before.

He took a deep breath and gave up trying so hard. He turned back toward Sherlock. John licked his lips and smiled awkwardly. “You know what? I'm starving.”

Sherlock had no reaction, he stood there looking at John without blinking. John started fidgeting. He knew Sherlock hadn't ask him to dinner just to be polite, so what the hell was that about?

The detective snapped out of it and smiled a smile that John knew well. It never ceased to impress him, however. He returned it in fullest, and didn't miss the fact that it had come naturally.

 

* * *

 

They sat in front of each other in the small booth. The small Chinese restaurant was nearly empty, which was not unusual, given it was almost 2 am. Sherlock ate ferociously while John watched him.

“What?” Sherlock asked around a mouthful of dim sum. He tried to smile, but it was quite a lot of food.

John laughed. “You eating without Mrs Hudson bothering you about it.”

Sherlock swallowed the food and took a large gulp of water. “Or you,” he said, and the left corner of his mouth turned slightly up.

John sighed. “Or me,” he agreed.

Sherlock continued to eat and John continued to watch him. He knew it would be awkward to other people, but they weren't other people. He let himself watch the lines of Sherlock's mouth and the movement of his Adam's apple, glad for the little signs of _life_ emanating from the body in front of him. When Sherlock lifted his eyes from his plate and looked straight into John's, John continued to stare.

That was certainly inappropriate, John thought, vaguely. It should be strange for mates to share that kind of look. And yet, John felt washed by the rightness of it. He had felt like that since the beginning. It was terrifying to realize how right it still felt, and John tried to ignore the fear of having all that ripped out of him again.

He willed away the tightness in his chest and washed down the dryness of his mouth with a glass of water. Sherlock must have realized the turn of John's thoughts, because his lips had become tense and he was looking at John as if trying to think of the adequate thing to say.

John hated when Sherlock tried to be adequate because it always ended up in lies. He had always accepted Sherlock's inadequacy. He didn't deserve to be fooled by his fake niceties.

Something on his face must have told Sherlock that he'd better keep his mouth shut. The other man kept eating, now more slowly than before, chewing mechanically and swallowing audibly. The quality of the silence changed and in a second they were back to feeling awkward and _wrong_ around each other. John didn't want to make things worse, but his empty mouth had its own opinions.

“Are you ever going to tell me?” He asked, drawing randomly in the water condensation on his glass. He looked at his own fingers for a bit, then lifted his eyes again to meet Sherlock's.

Sherlock had that expression on his face that screamed that he had no idea what to say. John could almost hear the gears of his mind working. Working to fool John yet again. John was so sick of it.

“Don't lie to me _again_ ,” he said, rubbing his hands together under the table. “Just tell me the truth. Will you tell me?"

“I'd prefer not to speak of it ever again,” Sherlock said, and sounded honest. His eyes were shiny, and he also had his hands under the table. John suspected they were mirroring each other's positions.

John's breath caught is his lungs. He didn't know what to make of that. Sherlock didn't want to talk about jumping? Or he didn't want to talk about what had happened in those two years?

“Neither,” Sherlock said, starting John. Nothing new about Sherlock reading John like an open book. This time, John refused to feel awkward about it, or to question Sherlock's right to do it.

“Were you hurt?” John asked, because, when it came down to it, it was the thing that mattered the most to him. It felt like trying an old pair of jeans that fitted perfectly. That had been his place. He was admitting he had missed it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to act like he didn't understand John's worry, but he smiled and John could tell it was fond. “Honestly, _doctor_...”

“Well, that's me, I _am_ a doctor,” John conceded, unhelpfully.

“ _And_ a soldier,” Sherlock pointed out, arrogantly.

“Yes, stop being a smart arse. I'm both.”

Sherlock looked at him intently and nodded. “I know.” His eyes had a familiar blaze in them. John had seen it a dozen times, but had never been able to tell what it meant. _Admiration_ , maybe? Just the thought of that seemed ridiculous to John.

“So, were you injured?” John asked, stubbornly. He had spent enough time around Sherlock to learn to be annoying when it suited him.

“A bit,” Sherlock admitted. “Nothing serious.”

John had the urge to ask to see any scars, partly because he needed as much reassurance as he could get, and partly because he was, indeed, a doctor, and Sherlock had been his patient for a long time. He suspected he had been the only doctor Sherlock had ever willingly submitted himself to.

John resented that he didn't know if he had the right to ask this from Sherlock anymore, that they were not going back to the same house at the end of the night, and that he wouldn't be able to follow Sherlock's health as closely as he did before.

And how ridiculous of him was that? Sherlock was a grown man, had lived well enough before John and had lived well enough after him. He didn't need babysitting or John caretaker tendencies. He was fine.

Or _apparently_ fine.

John hated not knowing.

 _He didn't need John to know_ , John reminded himself firmly. He hated getting all tangled up inhis own pitiful drama. He was the one who wanted to know and who couldn't find it in himself to ask.

He cleared his throat and refocused his eyes on Sherlock's again, who was looking at him knowingly. He seemed tense.

“I was beaten, I didn't get shot. But I was beaten,” Sherlock said, hurriedly. “A few times,” he concluded.

“A _few times_?” John asked, holding his left hand in a tight fist.

“Not more than six, maybe seven,” Sherlock said and grimaced. John knew that it wasn't caused by memories, but by John's own expression.

“You were beaten _six_ times,” John repeated, trying to calm himself, but his voice was loud and echoed in the empty restaurant. However, he knew it was useless to shout now, to try to soothe violence with more violence. He had already done that.

“It's fine,” Sherlock said, watching John closely.

“No,” John shook his head. “It's not _fine_ at all,” he argued. He decided to let his voice get as loud as he needed. “You have no idea... You should have let me go with you.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. And it was so low that John thought he had imagined it. “But it was impossible.”

John didn't want to have that conversation. He didn't want to tell Sherlock that he thought the real reason was that Sherlock simply had not wanted John there. John had ceased to be convenient.

Sherlock huffed and John turned his attention back to him. “You see, but you never observe, do you, John?” He asked, sounding tired.

“No, I don't. I was used to having _you_ for that,” John said, without thinking. “Until one day I didn't,” he looked at Sherlock, willing him to understand John's hastiness. He wasn't trying to punish Sherlock, he didn't think so. He was just tired. He wanted things to go back, but he couldn't wish that. He wanted his two lives to fit each other perfectly and to be complete again.

“You still do,” Sherlock said.

And John was so glad, so fucking glad to hear that. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, took a deep breath and nodded, then sipped his now lukewarm water.

“Well, yes, I'm glad,” John said. “And you have your doctor back.”

Sherlock smiled and nodded back.

The waiter came to their table and they asked for the bill. After they had paid, they picked up their coats in a comfortable silence and headed for the door.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned to John with a look of pure mischief in his eyes. “You can be my doctor again now you've shaved that thing off,” and he laughed out loud.

John had the urge to tackle him to the ground, but he ended up joining him in a round of laughter that he was sure was inappropriate for 3 am.

 _Teenage boys_ , John thought.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
>  
> 
> _"He was carrying too many things. He was suddenly aware of it. Blues and trains and pools; and bombs and fires and oranges; and greys. And all the red."_

_Everything was blue._

_He looked both ways in the long corridor. He could feel his frantic heartbeat._

_They didn't have any more time._

“ _John, there was stuff that you wanted to say, but didn't_ _say it_ _...”_

_The chlorine invaded his nostrils and his vein jumped on his neck._

_He ran, calling the name over and over again. It was his lucky word. It was the word of doom._

_He opened all the doors he could find, he tore curtains, he broke windows._

_A neat round cut in the centre of the glass. But he couldn't see anything._

_Get him, get him._

_He called the name over and over again._

_Everything was going orange, soon to be hot and burning._

“ _Say it now.”_

_He waited for the blast._

_It never came._

_He heard a dry thud. A body. A body hitting the ground._

_Everything was grey. The pavement, red._

“ _Sorry, I can't.”_

_There should be some rubbish bags, he knew, there should be._

_There weren't._

_Everything was red._

“ _Sherlock!”_

 

“John?” Mary's voice was a distant point in an ocean of chaos. John's own ragged breath screamed in his years. He sat up in bed immediately, swinging his feet over and planting them on the ground, digging his toes in the carpet. He looked ahead at nowhere in particular, trying to convince himself that everything was fine.

“John?” Mary sat beside him and tried to take his hand. He didn't let her. He needed space. He was suddenly afraid that he wouldn't be able to stop himself from shoving her if she tried to hold him again. There was a panic attack coming, he could feel. His nostrils were full of chlorine, despite the fact that John hadn't been in a pool in years. Since Moriarty, since he had told Sherlock to run.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply. His lungs seemed full of pool water. He had never drowned in it, but he had carried all that water ever since. He was carrying too many things. He was suddenly aware of it. Blues and trains and pools; and bombs and fires and oranges; and greys. And all the red. John hated all the colours.

He tried to drink the glass of water that was on his dresser. It shattered beside his feet. He looked at it to ground himself. _Shattered_ , he thought. Everything seemed irrevocably shattered.

“John, are you all right?” Mary asked, sounding more worried than before, turning on the lamp on his side of the bed. She could be so caring and loving. John loved her. He wouldn't know what do without her. But he also didn't know what do with her in that moment. He had never had an audience for his nightmares before, not like this. She was trying to touch him, to be reassuring, and all he needed was space.

He told himself to answer her at once, to end her worry. He couldn't. He couldn't even nod. In his eyes everything was colour. Everything was red. In his head, Sherlock was still dead. John hated that now that Sherlock was actually _alive_ again, John seemed to need proof of it every now and again. What kind of miserable little captain was he that the loss of one single brother-in-arms was enough to destroy him completely?

What kind of human being was he that the coming back of the same brother-in-arms had carved his chest cavity empty of everything?

“John??” Mary's training finally kicked in, and she took his pulse. He wanted to love her for it so much, but he hated her then. _He_ was the one used to take care of others, not the other way around. He couldn't help feeling a bit of resentment.

John set his mind to standing up. He poured all his lasting energy into getting as far away from their bed as he could. That bed wasn't the place for this. It wasn't the place for him to bring a part of himself that he had needed to bury to save at least something.

John felt the smooth sheets under his fingers. He had never felt so disconnected from it. The part of his life that had been engraved in war, adrenaline, heartbreak and blood had no place on those sheets.

The fluffy pillow Mary had picked especially for him wasn't the place to bring Sherlock and his madness, the madness he had brought into John's life from the day one. The madness John's body couldn't take anymore, but craved at the same time.

He felt sick.

He forced himself to finally stand up and walked erratically to the bathroom. He locked the door and sat on the floor, in front of the toilet, resting his head on the cold porcelain, humiliated. Mary was standing on the other side of the door, asking for him, almost shouting. He wanted to be reassuring, but he couldn't even stand on his own feet. He tuned her out to avoid telling her to shut up. It wasn't her fault, he remembered himself.

It wasn't her fault she had fallen in love with the doctor. It wasn't her fault that now, out of the blue, her doctor had changed back into something ugly and damaged.

 _Not out of the blue_ , John thought, bitterly. He was trying to slow his own breathing, to get a hold of his body, to get his hands to stop shaking.

Not his hands. _His hand_ , his left hand. The hand that had given him away to the Holmes brothers. The same hand that once again was showing John how utterly lost he was.

Sherlock Holmes had saved him once. Only Sherlock Holmes could have shattered him so completely again.

John had run out of options. To be fixed by Sherlock wasn't a possibility anymore. It seemed as if all had been lost. Sherlock's coming back had just make it fairly obvious.

John didn't have anywhere to run away to.

His soon-to-be wife was pounding at the door. Sherlock was pounding in his head. Neither of them had the slightest idea of how devastated John was.

Ella had known. From the moment he had sat on that stupid chair in front of her after Sherlock's fall, she had known. She had _seen_. John had never come back after that. He hadn’t needed a reminder. He had needed to forget.

Well, that had happened for a brief period of time.

Now everything was coming back to haunt him. A six foot tall ghost who had come back to life to remind him how completely pathetic John had been for grieving.

His stomach turned in revulsion. He couldn't take anymore, he emptied its contents in the toilet, feeling tears of rage running down his cheeks.

He had said goodbye to that life. He had tried to move on. He couldn't live until the end of his days feeling sorry for himself, waking up trembling and sweating because of a man that had given no second thought to jumping off a building right in front of him.

Putting John back together wasn’t Sherlock’s job anymore. Maybe they had been fools to think they could try again. Maybe John had been a fool, Sherlock was probably well aware of the fact, had deduced it long ago and was now trying just for the scientific kick.

John told himself to _calm the fuck down_.

He swallowed the bitterness and straightened his back. Captain Watson was better than that.

He trained his breathing, focusing on the grout between the tiles of the bathroom wall.

He swiped his disgusting mouth on the sleeve of his pyjamas and rested his back on the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the terrible colours to go back to the hidden corners of his mind.

 _Hold on_ , _stay put_ , _survive_. He had been doing it all his life. He would do it again.

Mary's voice invaded his ears once more. Sweet, loving Mary, who was his fiancée and who was worried sick about him. Mary who needed a word from him to know he was okay, it didn't matter how much of a lie that would be.

“John! John, I'm calling the neighbour to run down this door if you don't answer me right at this second!”

“'M okay,” he said, weakly.

He was crying involuntary tears, his mouth reeked, his hand was shaking, his head was pounding and he felt lost. But he was going to be fine.

“I'm taking a shower,” he said, while standing up from the floor and looking himself in the mirror. He washed his mouth and face, trying to remember who he was, apart from the sidekick that had been left behind.

He took of his clothes slowly and looked his naked torso in the mirror. That scar was proof of what he could endure, of how resistant he was. He had survived war, had survived many different wars. John Watson had survived an alcoholic mother, an alcoholic sister, Afghanistan, an infection. He had survived Sherlock Holmes and their life, and Sherlock Holmes and his death. That bullet scar was the proof that John was going to survive Sherlock Holmes and his resurrection.

And he was going to do it by himself. Therapy be damned.

The water was scalding, and he stayed under it until his skin was pink and burning. He took deep breaths and closed his eyes, letting the physical reaction calm his chaotic mind. After some time, he shut off the water and dried himself in one of the lilac towels Mary left in the bathroom. It smelled faintly of lavender and John was glad for it. He was glad for anything that wasn't chlorine.

John wrapped himself in the towel and looked at his wreck of clothes. He would throw everything away, including his pants. He didn't need any reminder of this night.

To think that the confrontation with Mary was waiting for him outside gave him pause. Mary was understanding, but she had never seen John like this, she would want and need to talk, like normal people did. Like John could never do, like he had _never needed_ to because early in his life there was his mum, and then Harry, and then the army, and then Sherlock. Not for the first time, he thought this was the first normal relationship he had ever had.

And he had to adjust to it. He wanted to accept it wholeheartedly. This was what he needed, he knew it now. He would patch himself up and be good to her, he would be _better_.

John took a deep breath and straightened his back, determined to answer any questions Mary had. He would blame the war. Sherlock Holmes wasn't anybody else's business but his own. And he would bury _it_ again.

He unlocked the door and Mary was there with her big, wet eyes, waiting for him. He knew he should give her a hug, but the thought of being trapped right now seemed too much. He let her embrace him anyway and was truly glad for smelling their bed in her hair and on her neck. The smell helped soothe him.

“I'm okay,” he said, trying to disentangle himself from her, but holding her hands in his own. He rubbed her palms and kissed each one of them. “I'm fine, love, I'm sorry.”

Mary seemed so scared, John hated that he had made her feel like that.

“You're going to have to talk to me about this,” she said, and sounded apologetic. She sounded as if she too hated that she had to ask that from John.

John took a deep breath and nodded, pointing to their wardrobe, signalling that he was going to put some clothes on so they could talk.

He put on an old pair of boxers and a t-shirt. His body was still warm after everything. He threw his dressing gown over and offered his hand to her. “Let's talk in the kitchen, okay?”

She accepted his hand, but didn't take her eyes out of his face. Her scrutiny was nothing close to Sherlock's, but John could admit to himself that it made him feel slightly more uncomfortable, especially now.

He was uncomfortable because he was trying to come up with a credible lie. He was trying to bend the truth to fit the purpose of explaining to Mary _why_ , without exposing something not even he could think about just yet. He knew he would have the whole day to do it. The whole week. He'd probably have the rest of his life to notice again every little crack Sherlock's ruse had caused him.

In the kitchen, she told him to sit down and busied herself with putting the kettle on. She took the milk out of the fridge and brought the sugar to the table, setting their cups and spoons. While waiting for the kettle to boil, they stayed in silence and she petted John's head, running her fingers through the strands of his damp hair. He rested his head on her stomach.

After their cups were filled, she sat in front of John, looking at him with eager eyes, but trying to mask her worry. John vaguely asked himself how pathetic must he appear that she didn't want to trigger him with a simple look. She didn't ask anything, just waited for John.

“It used to happen a lot, that kind of thing,” he started, as inarticulate as expected. She just nodded. “It has been some time since I last had one this intense. Something about PTSD,” John explained. Mary knew about PTSD, but she couldn't imagine his reverted condition. He couldn't imagine telling his fiancée that the problem was that his body, while traumatized, still craved the conditions which had caused the damage. John had to thank Mycroft Holmes for this reading. Or shoot him for it.

Mary was looking at him, questioningly. Had she asked him anything? John was zoning out again. He asked her to repeat.

“Will you tell me what the nightmare was about?”

John paused with his cup of tea mid-air. He wouldn't tell her the truth, but he could tell her something. This nightmare hadn't been about the Afghan war, but this explanation would be as good as the truth. In John's head sometimes they were all the same thing.

“War things. Gun shots, IED explosions, this sort of thing. Wound, etc,” he motioned vaguely with his cup of tea. As good as the truth. She didn't need to know it was him holding the gun and killing a cabbie, that the explosion had never happened and that the wound hadn't been his.

“Was that all of it?” She asked, holding her cup in her two hands, warming them on the china. John remembered it was still winter and he should be cold. He wasn't.

“Yes,” he said, trying to sound convincing. Sherlock had always thought he was a terrible liar, but Mary wasn't as cunning as him. Nobody was, with the exception of Mycroft.

Mary was looking at him sadly. There was no sign of pity. Instead, she looked disappointed. John didn't understand, Mary wouldn't be disappointed in him for this. He didn't say anything, however, he didn't want to keep talking. In fact, he didn't know what he wanted to do, since going back to sleep was out of the question.

She seemed to have something to say, so John lifted an eyebrow and waited for it. Whatever it was, he wanted her to spill it out at once. He dreaded that she was going to tell him to go back to therapy.

Mary cleared her throat, and her features changed into something of determination. John was proud of her.

“You screamed his name, you know,” she said, simply, and sipped her tea.

And John was _falling_ all over again.

 _How_ could he not know that? It hadn't crossed his mind.

He tried to recollect the moment he had awoken, but it was just a blur in his memory and he was partly glad for it. He cleared his throat and paid attention to any lingering sting. Of course his throat was a mess, he had just thrown up to the point in which bile was all there was inside him. He asked himself if Mary could be fishing for that answer and then chastised himself for it. She wasn't the one who lied to John.

John had always dreamed silently. He had always felt comforted by the fact that even his subconscious seemed so secretive that it didn't come jumping out of his throat without his consent. It didn't matter how loud things were inside his head, his mouth was sealed.

But then again, he told himself, he had never had an eye witness before, he could have been screaming for his dear life and not know.

He considered denying, but it wasn't really an option. He was sure his face had already given him away. He hid his hands and braced himself on the chair to stop himself from fleeing. He wasn't ready to discuss this, he had never been.

“So... Are you going to tell me truth now?” Mary asked, but she didn't sound impatient, just worried.

“Everything I said was true,” John said simply. It was the truth. He hoped Mary stopped asking questions and saved them both from the frustration.

“So he appears in your nightmares about the Afghan war?” Mary asked, sounding skeptical. She was pushing him, maybe too hard.

John didn't want to lie to her, nor did he want to tell her about the imagery that was finally leaving his immediate memory. “I don't want to talk about it,” he said, and it was the best he could offer her. It was the truth. Not the one she wanted, but no less true because of that.

She seemed to debate with herself if she was letting him get away with it. Mary wasn't that kind of person, she was tenacious and she was always up to solve things. If she thought for a second that she could help John, she wouldn't shut up about it. John prayed that she would give up.

As she wasn't saying anything else, John assumed she had let it go. He stood up, walked around the table and planted a kiss on the top of her head as a _thank you_ of sorts. He took their empty cups and the spoons to the sink and started washing them to give himself something to do.

That was why John never talked about them to anyone. Because he never seemed ready to tell the truth, and the lie left a sour taste in his mouth.

But Mary would get over it. He hoped.

He hoped _he_ got over it. He prayed to whatever deity that was in charge that the nightmares didn't come back on that intensity. John had had his _un_ fair share of soul crushing dreams for a life time.

“Are you going to tell him?” Mary asked, and it took John by surprise. When he finally understood what she had meant, he wished he hadn't.

What could he _possibly_ tell _him_? _He_ was Sherlock Holmes. What could John possibly tell him about nightmares? The simple thought made John feel the bile rise again to his throat. He didn't want to think about that, to feel this exposed before Sherlock, to see in his face that he understood how pathetic John was. He didn't need that; the near panic attack after Sherlock had fallen over the rubbish bags had been quite enough. John didn't want to consider that if he had had one eye witness to his nightmares, it had been Sherlock. He didn't want to think about how many times he must have screamed in his sleep and revealed too much of himself to the maniac downstairs playing the violin, experimenting on body parts or whatever it was that he had been doing. John dismissed the whole train of thought.

“I said I don't want to talk about it,” John said, in lieu of clarifying to her that he had meant he didn't want to tell _anyone_ about it. Was Mary asking because she thought he was going to open his heart to _Sherlock_ and not to her? John decided it didn't matter. He really was done talking, he wanted to hide all the triggers and forget.

“Maybe you should tell him, or talk to someone,” Mary said, as if John hadn't talked.

John couldn't believe his ears.

 _This_ , this had been the one thing John had tried to avoid. Now, in the middle of the night, not half an hour after he had thrown up all his stomach's content wasn't really the time for all this.

He turned to Mary and his look left no room for argument.

“This is me _not_ talking about it. I'll have the sofa, you get some rest,” he said, kissing her on the forehead and leaving the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

John spent the day at home. Mary had not left for work until he had promised to take the day off to rest.

On one hand, he was glad for not having to deal with cases of flu and boring diagnoses; on the other, the more free time he had, the more his mind floated back to the nightmare and his own reaction to it.

After trying very hard to escape the memories, John just sat on the sofa and let his mind wander. He poured a glass of whisky and ignored his inner doctor's voice – that funny enough, was exactly like his own – that said it wasn't healthy to drink in the middle of the day. He was trying to glue the pieces of his life back together, he deserved to drink the whole bottle if he damn well pleased so.

He felt the strong taste in his tongue and swallowed the liquid while running his fingers through the glass.

It hadn't been his worst nightmare. Fortunately, John did not remember every single one of the nightmares he had had, but he knew there had been a few worse than the one from the night before. Still, it had made him throw up and shake all over, something the nightmares about the Afghan desert hadn't done.

Sherlock's death had always caused the worst nightmares for John. He was as used to it as he could ever be. Right after it had happened, he had avoided sleeping for dread of the things he would see. On the days he went to bed, he left his gun far away from him out of fear of doing something stupid.

The nightmares after the war had exhausted John, had reminded him that he wasn't an active captain anymore, that he had been shot and that he was back to the civilian life, broken and alone. The nightmares about the war reminded him of a life that wasn't his anymore. After meeting Sherlock, they had changed completely. He then had adrenaline enough in his day to day life to fuel his mind, awake or asleep.

The nightmares after that day _– the red day,_ the day Sherlock died _–_ had been another thing altogether. He didn't dream about their life, their cases, the criminals they arrested, or Sherlock's deductions. He dreamed about Sherlock's death, over and over again. And then he dreamed about all the little deaths that brought Sherlock to the roof of St Barts and John to the front row seat for the whole act.

 _Moriarty_ , it was always him. He was always there, even when John couldn't see his face. He reminded John of what he had accomplished. He hadn't exploded the pool, but he had burned them all anyway.

By the time John had decided to ask Mary's hand, the nightmares had been better. John got used to fact that some nights’ sleep would just not come and his mind would play tricks on him, and that in other nights, he would go to sleep and there would be nightmares that would make him feel tired the day after.

However, it had been some good months since John had had such an intense reaction to a nightmare. And it had been some time since he last had had a dream that brought back bits and pieces of the life and _certain deaths_ he and Sherlock shared. He knew Sherlock's fall a few days earlier had triggered it. He dreaded to think of everything that unfortunate misstep had triggered in him.

It seemed to John that his mind was giving him a warning. He would succumb to all the pain again if he let himself forget, even for a second, what that kind of life had brought to him. Not because of the adrenaline, or because of the danger, but because John knew what happened when one made Sherlock Holmes the centre of his life and then lost him. And John would invariably lose him again and again, because that was what Sherlock did. John asked himself if it wasn't his own fault for having ignored the amount of times Sherlock had left him alone everywhere. Maybe it had been a prelude of his final detachment.

John snorted without any humour. _Why was he even thinking about this, again?_

What angered him the most was that he already knew all that. From the moment his eyes had flown to Sherlock's in that restaurant, he had known exactly to what extent Sherlock was a sociopath. The joke had been on John for ignoring people around him again and again. He didn't resent the life he had had, but he knew he couldn't come back to it. It would kill him. To have everything again and then lose everything again would cripple him. The mere thought made his stomach wamble.

John had never dreamed about Jefferson Hope before. It had never registered to him as something other than the first time he saved Sherlock's life. He had done it so many times after that, and had offered to do it so many more times than that, that Jefferson Hope had stayed locked somewhere safe in his memories. Now John had to stop and admit _again_ that he had been running after the Sherlock Holmes since day two.

John had done that to himself. He hadn't thought twice before running after him _again_.

It was impossible not to think of Donovan. _“He enjoys it, he gets off on it.”_

 _What about me?_ , John asked himself. What did it say about him that he ran after him over and over again?

He took a large gulp of whisky. He was feeling restless. He knew it had been that kind of restlessness that had propelled him to be Sherlock's friend or sidekick or whatever the hell one might decide to call it. That mood was natural to John, but he promised himself to find another way to get rid of it, one his body could take, one that didn't leave him all scattered.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed. Before looking at his phone, John knew who it was. It couldn't be Mary, she had called him half an hour before and she almost never texted. John ran a hand through his head and laughed without humour. He half hated, half loved Sherlock's timing.

He completely hated his own inability to make peace with whatever shitty piece of life his mind used to destroy him. He grabbed the phone in his hand and opened the text.

**Care to help solve a perfect robbery in which nothing was taken? -SH**

John smiled and then scolded himself for doing it.

That was how it always started. Whenever he let himself be wholly dragged down into Sherlock's rabbit hole again, he was never able to leave. It had almost killed him once. And when he finally got kicked out of it – as he had been before – the joke would be on him, he told himself.

 **Am working,** he answered, telling himself that _only lies had details_ and that Sherlock would know. John didn't know why, but he felt vaguely glad for it.

**No, you aren't. -SH**

Of course he would know. John felt his chest tightened and told himself to stop being a coward. He could simply say he didn't want to. He could say, if he could mean it. He was sure he could. He wasn't sure of anything. It was highly frustrating.

**You don't have anything do to, but won't come with me.**

**Are you ill? -SH**

John had to smile at Sherlock's inability to be modest. Of course if John didn't want to go with him, he must have other reasons, like being terrible ill or something. _Because of course John would want to_ , that was why they were so well matched.

That was exactly that kind of thing his mind and body couldn't take anymore.

 **No, I'm not. I just can't go. Goodbye, Sherlock** , he answered, and turned off his phone.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
>  
> 
> _"John noticed he and Sherlock were staring at each other, seeming equally frightened and lost, which was kind of ridiculous, since they'd known one another for quite a long time, and it was, indeed, a friendly gathering. Never mind John hadn't actually invited any one of his friends. Never mind he hadn't invited Sherlock."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, there, you guys!  
> I'm really sorry for having skipped last week, real life got in the way.  
> As an apology of sorts, I'll be posting a little fic soon. See the end of this chapter for the link and the summary of this fic.
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and stuff! (:

John looked around their living room and felt glad, even if a bit overwhelmed.

Mary had wanted to have a dinner party so John could finally meet her dearest friends. From what John had understood, some of them had gone to school with her, and some others had met her in some literature group or other. He didn't recollect all the names and credentials, but they were all nice, warm people.

Mary was sparkling with happiness. She had taken care of everything, picked the bottles of wine and put together a nice little buffet to please even the most fastidious guest they'd eventually have. Everybody was pleased and seemed satisfied.

But Mary... Mary was the the most beautiful creature in their living room at that moment. She was probably the most beautiful creature in the whole London, John would bet money on it. Her black dress was breathtaking and made John ask himself what he had done to deserve her.

His nightmares had become part of their sleeping ritual. John was tired of having to wake up and sleep on the sofa so many times, but Mary was always there in the morning to give him a kiss and accept him without any pity in her eyes, making love to him without any melancholy or regrets.

She had caught up quickly and hadn't asked more about his troubled sleep. She still tried to talk him into therapy, but he guessed he couldn't really blame her for that. He would probably do the same thing were their roles reversed. John knew what it meant to worry about someone that seemed stuck.

But he was getting better, he told himself. At least he wanted to. Not that he knew what to do to make it happen.

It had been two weeks since he had last seen Sherlock. The detective had tried to drag John on some cases, but John had held himself back. A week later, John had tried to contact him to know what he had been up to, but Sherlock hadn't answered any of his texts. Mrs Hudson had said he was out of the country.

It was all fine, John thought. _Again_.

That was how they were supposed to be now, nothing wrong with it. He had a proper job, a wedding to plan, his life to work on. Sherlock had his own mad things to do. Neither one of them needed the other to get in their way.

John took a gulp of the white wine and closed his eyes to appreciate its flavour. In truth, he wasn't a wine person, but he couldn't deny it had been a great choice. The fish that had been served for dinner had been perfect with it. Now people were scattered all around the flat, chatting and laughing. John was going to rejoin them soon enough, he was just taking some time to himself. He straightened up his tie and felt a bit ridiculous in those clothes. He was sure it had been too much. They were in their own bloody living room, for Christ's sake.

Mary was talking to some of her girlfriends; her high pitched laughter drew John's attention and he smiled, not for the first time that night, admiring her from afar. She really _was_ gorgeous.

He was getting ready to walk over to her when the doorbell rang. He asked himself who could possibly be, that late. They had already eaten dinner. The late arrival would have to make do with coffee and the mini chocolate bars.

Mary looked at him and motioned him to answer the door for her 'please, please, please'. He could just make the exact tone she would use in his mind. He smiled and sighed exasperated but fond.

He opened the door and his brain went white.

He stared.

Standing there, looking extremely uncomfortable and out of place was Sherlock in his usual attire. He was holding a bottle of the same wine Mary had picked up because _of course_ he had deduced it.

But when had that happened...? _How...?_

John and Mary had some serious talking to do.

John noticed he and Sherlock were staring at each other, seeming equally frightened and lost, which was kind of ridiculous, since they'd known one another for quite a long time, and it was, indeed, a _friendly_ gathering. Never mind John hadn't actually invited any one of his friends. Never mind he hadn't invited Sherlock. 

Sherlock, who was offering the bottle of wine to John with his left hand because his right one was in a cast.

“Hi, John,” he said, and sounded perfectly normal and bored. Damn him. “I'm sorry, but Mary wouldn't accept no for an answer.” The right corner of his mouth turned up.

John decided not to say that Sherlock had never given a rat's ass about what anyone would accept as an answer or not. He seriously had other preoccupations.

“How did you break your hand?”

“Oh, hello!” Mary interrupted them. She hugged Sherlock with an ease that made John's jaw clench. Sherlock and hugging was something John had never been comfortable with, because he knew Sherlock was not really a hug person, Mrs Hudson being the one and only exception.

“We're so glad you could make it,” she said squeezing Sherlock left hand and expressing sympathy over the broken one. The speed of her gestures was making John a bit sick. He hadn't seen Sherlock for weeks, he wasn't ready to interact with him like this, there, in a normal people’s event. Sherlock would hate it. John had absolutely no idea of what the detective was doing there. Suddenly, he wasn't sure what was he doing there either.

And why had Mary set them up like this? It didn't make any sense. John hated her choice of pronoun, as if 'we' was a sort of entity that soon-to-be-married people used to behave as one. He didn't confirm nor deny that he was glad for Sherlock being there. In fact, he had no idea if he was glad.

And at the same time he couldn't stop from worrying over the bloody broken hand, about how thin Sherlock looked and how strange it felt to not know how he had been injured and why he wasn't eating. It was something that John simply wasn't able to do, to stop _wanting_ to know. Just as he wasn't able to tell himself that he hadn't missed that big idiot with his overly dramatic coat.

“Ah, what about Martha?” Mary asked.

 _Mrs Hudson_? Had Mary invited her too? Well, now that was more likely.

“Evening soothers, you know how she is,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John snorted despite himself. He knew bloody well how Mrs Hudson was with her _soothers_. They could shoot a suspect in 221B's living room and she wouldn't wake up. John would know, it had happened before.

Sherlock was smiling at him knowingly. He seemed to have the perfect comment to make, but Mary interrupted them once more. It was like they were constantly forgetting that there were other people in the universe.

“There's someone I want you to meet,” Mary said, while dragging Sherlock by his coat sleeve over to a friend of hers. John knew her somewhat well. She had been around frequently, as she was Mary's best friend.

 _Janine_ , his brain provided him uselessly. Yes, he knew her name. What good that would do? Apparently, she wasn't there for Mary's sake. 

Sherlock wasn't there for his either. 

John had absolutely no idea of what do to with that sudden realization. It was too surreal for him to contemplate. He wanted to call the whole reunion out. 

Janine was alone in a corner. John was pretty sure she had been chatting with her other friends before, so they had all deserted her on purpose. What the hell was that? Was Mary going matchmaker on _Sherlock_? The thought made John's insides turn over themselves.

But he would ignore it and go on; it wasn't his business. And it would surely go disastrously. It probably said much about him that he was already planning to choose a seat and watch the whole thing. Maybe he would make some popcorn, and have it with beer.

“Janine,” Mary called, purposelessly. Janine was well aware of their entourage, she seemed to be expecting it anxiously. “Here is someone I know you've been dying to meet,” Mary said, dragging Sherlock until he was almost toe to toe with her friend.

Sherlock looked at John with a look of pure terror. John had to admit all that was going great. He looked aside to hide his smirk. Sherlock frowned at him and seemed to recollect his acting skills.

“Yes, hi... Janine?” He asked, charmingly. He took her hand and kissed it.

John rolled his eyes. _Prat_.

“Oh,” Janine said, seeming out of breath. “The papers haven't done you any justice.”

“You have no idea of how _true_ that is,” John's mouth said, without his consent. He didn't remember giving it permission to open in the first place. But it was true. John was the one who had suffered through all of it, all the lies, all the filth the press had fed itself with before all had been cleared out.

Mary giggled. “Oh, John, I don't think Janine is talking about the same thing as you.”

John startled and looked at Janine.

No, indeed. He had to agree with Mary. She looked hungrily at Sherlock.

“Yes, I know all about that,” Janine said, “...but those press photos haven't done your face any justice either,” she said.

And _wow_ , all right.

John was not talking about that. Definitely.

And what the hell was wrong with Sherlock's face anyway? Or not wrong, for that matter. Apparently completely right, in Janine's not-so-secret opinion.

Sherlock was looking at Janine searchingly. Poor girl, she was probably thinking it was a seduction technique. 

John grimaced looking at Sherlock's face. It suddenly wasn't that funny anymore. John didn't want Sherlock to break Mary's best friend’s heart. He had been there when Sherlock had crumpled Molly's and it wasn't a very nice memory.

John wasn’t saying anything about the state of his own heart after Sherlock had jumped because they were just mates. It was different. But Sherlock didn't know how to deal with _anyone_. So John needed to get Janine out of there sooner rather than later.

Before he could interrupt the new couple, Mary grabbed him by the hand and took him aside.

“Don't be a spoilsport, leave them be,” she said, as if it was all a big joke.

John fidgeted with his tie. The damn thing was suddenly driving him crazy.

“Leave them be? Do you want your best friend to run away crying? Because that's what is going to happen in ten minutes,” John answered, itching all over. What the hell was happening that his bloody clothes were ganging up on him now? He rubbed his neck, loosening the tie to give his skin a break.

“I doubt it. Janine is not that easy to break,” Mary said, dismissing John's worry and coming over to him. She batted his hands away from his tie and undid the knot, taking it out of him. John loved her for it.

“I think you've got a rash,” she said, looking at his neck.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Did you invite him over for this?” John asked, still rubbing his skin, despite the fact that he was a bloody doctor and knew he shouldn't. 

“She is a big fan of _Sherlock Holmes_ ,” Mary said, and she emphasized his name as she meant to say they were all very cute and endearing for solving crimes and blogging about it and being friends. John was glad Mary thought it was nice. He himself wasn't sure he would ever be able to face it all so lightly.

“She was really _dying_ to meet him. She's got a crush on him or something,” Mary said.

Yes, well, John had figured out that much by himself.

“Doesn't she work in the press?” John asked, starting to get suspicious. He wasn't used to people liking Sherlock. He had met three kinds of people: the ones who knew Sherlock and hated him; the fans who got absolutely no clue of who the Hat Detective really was and loved him – probably exactly because of this – and the ones who knew Sherlock and loved him. The third group consisted of Mrs Hudson. And probably of Sherlock's parents, whom John hadn't been given the pleasure to meet.

As for John himself... Well, he was too tired identifying the groups to categorize himself. He was always floating between loving and hating Sherlock.

Mary had answered him and he had not listened. “What?” He asked, inelegantly. That damn rash was driving him mad.

Mary rolled her eyes, but looked at him as if he was being amusing. “Honestly, John... And besides, Janine and Sherlock have to get used to each other.”

John frowned and stared at Mary as if she were mad. “Why would they _have_ to do anything?”

That didn't make any sense. But Mary just laughed and looked at him as if he was the one being nonsensical. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and left him there.

John shook his head and told himself to get a grip. Sherlock was an adult, he knew how to take care of himself. He didn't need John to worry over his fans. He could probably manage them.

Maybe he would do it better than he managed his friends, he thought while scratching his neck absent-mindedly.

 

* * *

 

John tried to mingle a bit, but his eyes didn't leave Sherlock and Janine for more than five minutes. He knew he was being ridiculous, Sherlock was not his responsibility in any capacity, and he didn't need John to protect him from social gatherings or beautiful women.

He hadn't even needed John to _invite_ him. Honestly, Sherlock didn't need him to do _anything_.

It was obvious by how comfortable he seemed. His shoulders were relaxed, his smiles were small, not affected. He didn't look like someone who was faking his charm, he looked genuinely charming, as John knew he was. Sherlock looked perfect. He and Janine even laughed now and then.

Why was Sherlock being so civilized all of a sudden? Why _here_ , why _now_?

John surprised himself realizing that he preferred to suspect Sherlock's motivations than to consider the possibility that that was just Sherlock being himself.

John was a terrible human being. He didn't want to let himself be friends with Sherlock again, but he didn't want Sherlock to have another friends. _Another John.._.

_For God's sake, how old am I?_

John decided to go to the bathroom and wash his face. His neck was all red and he was feeling hot all over. He didn't know what the hell was going on with him. He had never been allergic to anything, and he was too old to have developed any sudden condition out of the blue.

He had probably had too much wine. It didn't explain the rash, but explained why all of a sudden he couldn't take his eyes off his friend who was chatting up a beautiful woman – had come here just for that, apparently.

John refused to ask himself _why_ he was bothered by it. The fact was that Janine _was_ a stranger and Sherlock had to be careful. They knew well enough what stalkers could do to the object of their affection.

 _Dear God_ , John told himself, _shut up_.

He didn't.

He remembered Kitty Riley and her obnoxious relationship with Moriarty. After Sherlock's death, he had had to invest all the energy he still had not to kill that woman. It didn't matter to John that she had been tricked by Moriarty – that did not explain her lack of sympathy in approaching John everywhere he went. Even at Tesco, she had cornered John, asking for an exclusive with ' _confirmed widower John Watson'_. The thought made bile rise in John's throat again now just as it had done then.

He straightened his clothes and took a deep breath. He was going mad. Sherlock was perfectly fine. He was perfectly fine with Janine.

The fact was confirmed for him when he re-entered the living room. The nice little pair seemed to be completely engrossed in each other and John was mesmerized by it. He could understand Janine, of course. Sherlock was mesmerizing, it made sense that she had been drawn to him. But what could Janine possibly have to draw the attention of the most demanding human being on planet Earth and probably all galaxies?

That was the question. The question he had no right to ask, but was asking himself anyway.

Janine wasn't The Woman. Even John could tell Irene had been something special. She had matched Sherlock in mind and even in body in a way that had caught John off guard.

He had had enough time to think about her after Sherlock's death. He kept asking himself if things would have gone differently if she had lived and stayed there with Sherlock. She liked misbehaving and would have probably thrown Sherlock to the wolves at the first opportunity, but then again John was considered a caretaker and he hadn't done Sherlock any good.

That thought almost brought John to his knees. It was like entering a room with a body in the middle of it. It was the thing he didn't want to address but was always there. He suspected it would always be. Rationally, he knew it hadn't been his fault, but he felt he had been given something special and hadn't been able to keep it safe.

 _Stupid_. Why the hell was he thinking about this? It didn't matter. It had never mattered. Sherlock wasn't dead. He was incredibly alive, had laughed those two years off as if they had never happened.

Lucky him. _Fucking_ _lucky_.

If Irene had been alive, he would have flown to meet her while he was 'dead'. They could have founded a club or something. The _Not Actually Dead_ Group.

If Irene had been alive, would Sherlock have come back? He did love London, but they would have found trouble elsewhere. _Would that have been better?_

John felt sick. _God_ , he was feeling feverish.

And Sherlock was staring straight at him, frowning. John didn't mind, he was used to being on the receiving end of Sherlock's scrutiny. At least he had taken his eyes off Janine for ten bloody seconds. John rubbed at his neck and downed the rest of the wine of his glass.

He should engage with the other guests, but his legs had their own plan. He was getting sick of his body having its own will. He walked straight to Sherlock and Janine, putting his best smile on his face. That would be fun.

Sherlock was still frowning at him. Sod him, John thought.

“Oh, hi, Janine, how is it going?” He asked, feeling foolish but not giving a damn. “And you,” he turned to Sherlock, “How did you break your hand again?”

Janine gave John a warm smile, but looked at Sherlock expectantly.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked John, without bothering to answer the damn question because that was _just like him_.

“Peachy,” John answered. “How did you break your hand?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sipped his own glass of wine. He did it pompously, it was infuriating. “It's nothing, John.”

“How?” John asked, and he knew it was his army doctor voice. The only voice that worked on Sherlock Holmes because he was a git.

Janine was looking at them amused. Well, John was glad she was being entertained.

Sherlock stared at him, searchingly. “Some ultra secret job or another,” he said. “How much of the caper sauce did you have?”

“Caper...? Never mind,” John answered, promising himself that Sherlock would not run away from the question. “Doesn't your brother have minions to do his legwork for him?” John said, taking Sherlock's broken hand is his and examining the cast. John thought about the violin. He would probably have some physiotherapy to do.

Sherlock took his arm away from John's grasp, but gave John a small smile. “Yes, doctor, I _know_. And Mycroft is a rubbish brother.”

Janine took Sherlock's arm. “No need to worry, doctor. I'm going to take care of him,” she said and winked.

John and Sherlock wore identical looks. They were both staring at Janine's grasp of Sherlock's hand.

John frowned and shook his head. “Sorry, what?”

“His hand will be perfect for the wedding.”

John asked himself how much of the wine Janine had had.

At the mention of the wedding, Sherlock took his hand away from her and straightened his back. For John, it was like watching an actor getting on stage.

He wanted to punch Sherlock in the face for it. 

Janine looked between both of them confused. “Mary said he's the best man. Is he not?”

Sherlock laughed, but sounded strained. “I'm sure our soldier friend would go with some historic hero whom I probably deleted...-”

“Wedding, Sherlock. She's talking about the wedding,” John said, automatically, because that was his part in Sherlock's life, to translate normal human life and social conventions to him. John took a deep breath, because he too had been caught by surprise. “ _My_ best man, for _my_ wedding,” he repeated for his own sake.

Sherlock stared at him, blinking.

John needed a best man. And how come Mary knew Sherlock was going to be his best man when he himself didn't? And how had he not known? _Bloody hell_. 

Of course it had to be him, of course it had to. John didn't have anyone else. He couldn't even think about doing that with a random rugby friend or even an old army mate. After everything, it had to be Sherlock. 

But how? They hadn't exactly been around each other lately. They had lost too much, they couldn't just pretend it hadn't happened. John couldn't do that with him. 

John couldn't do it _without_ him.

Janine was talking. John hadn't been listening, so he tried to tune her on again. “... this charming detective and I have a certain tradition to fulfil.”

Sherlock seemed completely lost, but not because of Janine's plainspoken seduction. He was staring at John as if he was trying to find something to say. He cleared his throat and focused his eyes on Janine again. His smile was big and fake.

“I'm sure John has better options,” he laughed, and John hated the sound of it. “Honestly, even a potted plant would be–“

“No, I don't,” John said, firmly, taking control over the situation. It was the truth, he didn't have any other options. He didn't want to. He scratched his pulse and fidgeted, feeling the weight of Sherlock's stare. John could practically see Sherlock's brain short-circuiting.

Janine gave them a knowing look and walked away. John was glad for it.

“Well, you're my best friend,” John said, matter of factly, lifting his face to meet blue grey eyes that were pouring directly into his.

“Me?” Sherlock asked, so low that John wouldn't have caught it if he hadn't been so close.

“Of course _you_ ,” John said, and he wanted to cry out of resentment. How could Sherlock not know that?

“I...”

“Yes?” John asked, because Sherlock was never that unarticulated, and John was getting worried. His own skin was stinging in sympathy for Sherlock's discomfort, it seemed. 

“I have to go,” Sherlock said, turning and walking to the door.

John walked after him, frowning. _What the fucking hell had just happened?_

“You haven't got your coat, or your scarf or your gloves on, you nutter. It's bloody freezing out there,” John said at the door. Sherlock was opening it himself, because niceties were always damned with him.

“Sherlock!” John said, trying to take Sherlock out of his reverie, whatever _that_ was about. Apparently all the best man problem had already been deleted as unimportant. John took Sherlock's arm.

The detective looked at John again. He seemed jittery. He shook his head and focused his eyes on John's again, examining his face.

John frowned because he had no clue of what was going on. He wished he could say he wasn't used to it. “What?” He asked, when Sherlock rubbed his pulse with his left thumb. It was a light movement, a soothing gesture. John fought back the need to hold Sherlock's hand and tell him to stay there.

He heard Sherlock's breath get caught in his throat. The mad bastard turned again and ran down the stairs. 

“You have food poisoning, John. Take care of it.”

_What?_

“Oh,” John sighed.

Damn it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again.  
> The little fic I'll be posting will be a rewriting of the goodbye scene. It **won't** be a fix fic in anyway, it is actually absolutely heartbreaking and worse than canon. That scene just breaks my heart and I wanted to pour my feelings into something that showed it. So, you have been warned. It'll be +/- 1800 words. I hope you find in yourself to read it once I have posted and not hate me for it.  
> I'll probably be posting it in the next days.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> _"It had been two days since the party, two days since Sherlock had run away from him with a broken hand, giving no explanation._
> 
> _John still asked himself how the detective had gained that injury. Had he been tortured?_
> 
> _For how long?_
> 
> _And where the fuck had Mycroft been when Sherlock had needed him?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for kudos and stuff! (:  
> you may have noticed that I haven't posted the little fic I told you about. well, blame Archie and her feelings for that. hahaha. ♥

John sat up on the couch and breathed deeply. His head pounded and his body seemed to be trembling with the intensity of it.

_Nightmare_ , again. If he could even call it that.

Despite all the darkness in the living room, it was still early afternoon.

He stood up and walked to the window, looking down at the street and trying not to feel like a prisoner. It was a ridiculous notion. It was just food poisoning, for Christ's sake, not the end of the world, but he couldn't help the angst that curled in base of his spine every time he woke up from a nightmare.

He straightened his back and tried to will away the reminiscences of it. He always woke up jittery after that kind of nightmare, and all his worst thoughts ricocheted inside his skull. Every time he was asleep felt like a summary of the two years he had spent thinking Sherlock was dead. Every time he opened his eyes he had to follow the ritual of remembering and forgetting, almost crying and almost laughing hysterically over the fact that Sherlock had died, and then he hadn't.

The thought that Sherlock being alive still caused him that much pain made John more confused than he could begin to face while treating his damned food poisoning. That should have been his first concern at the moment – not his own never ending monologue about Sherlock and his death, Sherlock and their life and just... _Sherlock_.

John's mind was playing tricks on him. For the past two days John had been dreaming about _conjectures_ , making assumptions about what had happened to Sherlock while he was away. He had tossed and turned in his sleep, while his brain supplied him with distorted imagery of what Sherlock could have endured, and John had no possible way of knowing for sure.

Sherlock would never tell him, he knew _that_ much.

Sherlock always appeared bloodied and beaten in John's dreams. But now his bruised and broken form stood in the middle of a dark room while a group of unknown faces laughed at his suffering and abused his body. In John's nightmares, Sherlock never let out a word.

He tried to shake off the feeling that Sherlock might have done exactly that.

John would never know. He hadn't been there to help Sherlock in real life, just as he could never change the inevitable outcome of his nightmares.

_Death_. Over and over again.

John felt nausea remembering the violence _he_ had inflicted on Sherlock on the day he had reappeared.

In some ways, John felt like the culprit in those nightmares because he could never do a damn thing. It made him want to crawl out of his skin, to dream of Sherlock's pain and be the one to have caused it. His stomach turned and turned, clearly trying to climb out of his mouth.

John swallowed hard and breathed deeply but shakily.

It had been two days since the party, two days since Sherlock had run away from him with a broken hand, giving no explanation.

John still asked himself how the detective had gained that injury. Had he been tortured?

For how long?

_And where the fuck had Mycroft been when Sherlock had needed him?_

John came back over to the couch and dropped his body heavily on it.

_I_ _t wasn’t his fault_ , John told himself for the thousandth time. Sherlock working alone for Mycroft wasn't John's fault, just as those two years hadn't been his fault. Sherlock had left him alone, John couldn't have known – that had been exactly the point, apparently. Mycroft, Molly, and every tramp in London had been allowed to know, but not John.

_John would have got in the way of the great Sherlock Holmes._

He drank what was left of the lukewarm glass of water on the coffee table. It went burning down his throat like a mouthful of sand.

John looked at the fabric samples Mary had left for him in the morning. _Wedding stuff,_ as they got used to calling them. A dozen tones of pink that looked exactly the same. For the life of him, John couldn't see any difference between salmon and baby pink. John only knew one shade of pink – the _pink-lady_ pink – and that one wasn't among the samples.

He didn't know what Mary could possibly gain from waiting for his opinion, but he understood that she needed him to assist her. Mary didn't have a mother to help her choose one dress from the other, or to help her pick the best flowers. In a way, she and John were the same. John didn't have any one else either. He could relate.

Mary at least had her friends. John, on the other hand...

He picked up the pieces of different fabrics and rubbed them between his forefinger and thumb, pretending he had some idea of what he was doing. They kind of felt all the same, and John wasn't the one who was going to wear any of it anyway. He was completely hopeless at _wedding stuff_.

He tried to get to the point and selected two random pinks that looked just as pinkish as all the others, but were nearer him. It was as good a criteria as any, he supposed. He rubbed them in his hands again and thought that maybe one was smoother than the other. He would pick that one.

_There_ , he thought. _Checked_.

He still had cake samples and all kind of pastries to try out – which he couldn't do. Just the thought of all that sugar in his stomach was more than he could bear. John had looked at the fluffy frostings and creamy fillings once, and it had turned his stomach in revulsion. He suspected they all tasted the same, since he didn't really have a sweet tooth. Mary could eat a whole cake and be good to go, but John could only eat a thin slice and that was that. Funny enough, his time at Baker Street had been when he had enjoyed more cakes than ever in his life. Mrs Hudson's goodies were simply irresistible, and they had had the unbeatable appeal of not have being baked in _Sherlock's_ kitchen.

John snorted to himself remembering the time he had tried to use their oven. One could trust Sherlock to leave two different species of poisonous spiders living freely there – _'It's for experiment, John, obviously'._ John had given up complaining and had sat on the floor laughing until tears of mirth had ran down his face. Frankly, with Sherlock it was the only possible outcome sometimes.

Other times, all John wanted to do was to curl in a ball and pretend Sherlock had never happened to him.

He sighed and laid down on the couch, turning on his side. He could feel the beginning of a headache – or maybe it was the _middle_ of it, since he had been feeling it intermittently for days. Thinking about all the Sherlock drama didn't help at all.

His whole body ached. His insides were still fighting the damn caper sauce. Nobody else had presented any reaction to it, but John's immune system had been failing him for quite some time. He asked himself how _Sherlock,_ of all people, had known exactly what caused John illness. Of course he had known, he was Sherlock Holmes, but how had he not deleted John's choice of sauce? John himself still didn't know why he had had that reaction. Apparently he would have to call Sherlock about his own medical history, and how fucked up was _that_?

It made him feel silly. There had been a time when he had been that person to Sherlock too. Now Sherlock sustained injuries and John was the last one to know.

John tried to clear that cloud of thoughts. He was getting more and more tired of denying the first instinct of being there again for Sherlock each day.

After the party, John had been left wondering what to do if Sherlock didn't accept to be his best man.

It shouldn't have been so surprising, but John was suddenly presented with the obvious fact that he didn't have anyone else who could possibly play the part. John had some rugby mates, sure. He still had contact with old army friends, of course. But not a single one of those people was _that_ important.

No one had been as important as Sherlock.

Still was.

Sherlock _was_ important. John was torn between the obvious realisation and wanting to deny it, even if uselessly.

Sherlock was _damn_ important. So much so that John could barely forget the fact that he had sustained a broken hand and John wasn't around to help him.

John might have been pretending that he didn't see that, but it was the truth.

Sherlock had changed everything in so many ways – good and bad – and John couldn't just sit in the dark and will their story away. It wasn't as simple as that. His own mind was having none of it, his own body reminded him again and again that Sherlock would _always_ be there.

It was _infuriating_ – it really was. After everything John had gone through, he had to admit to himself that he didn't have anyone else.

And it wasn't because other people in John's life weren't worth it, but because John had never felt the need to have anyone else around while Sherlock was there.

Lying in the darkness, John looked at his own feet and sighed at the admission.

Girlfriends had come and gone, and John had met his other mates now and again, but Sherlock had been there every day, right in front of him, being obnoxious and brilliant in a way that had left John out of breath from day one.

John had immersed himself in it – with the life they had, the crimes, the blog, the flat. John had coated himself in _Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson_ . He had done that, _he_ had been the one to let his whole life float around a mad bastard in a dramatic coat. And he had fucking loved it, had basked in it, had cherished it.

John had had a fine little bubble that had been destroyed in the most cruel and excruciating way. It was to be expected that John still didn't have anyone else. Two years later and he still didn't have anything else apart from Mary – beautiful Mary who had saved him from a life of oblivion.

John rubbed his hands together and looked at his own fingers. He instinctively soothed his trigger finger.

What did it say about him that he had laced himself in that life so completely that now it glowed red in his memory whenever he dreamed about it? Most important of all: what did it say about him that he still couldn't see himself having a life disconnected from it?

John had to be honest. He lifted his head and looked at the ceiling. He had never been a coward, he had to accept the inexorable truth.

Sherlock wouldn't go away. He would never be away from John's life. Not only because he was a git, but because he was John's best friend. He had been John's whole world when John had needed him the most.

Sherlock wouldn't go away because John would never tell him to. There, that was the truth. He would never really want it, never mind how many damn hours he spent on the couch willing his nausea away.

Sherlock was a train wreck, sure. He had always been, and he had run John over a long time ago.

The inexorable truth was that John wouldn't change him for the world. He had to admit that for the sake of any shred of mental stability he could still hold for himself.

If Sherlock didn't accept to be John's best man, John would simply not have one. There wasn't anyone else for the job, John _did not want_ anyone else for best man.

Obvious as it could seem, the thought actually felt a bit freeing. It was like accepting death, like stopping praying for a miracle.

John laughed out loud at the analogy. Only Sherlock could be so traumatic that John could compare him to _dying_ and not feel inappropriate in the least. Maybe John was so fucked up that he had a death wish or something. That was one way of explaining the inevitable pull he always felt towards Sherlock and the mad possibilities that came with him.

John tried not to worry about Sherlock not accepting to be his best man. Even though it was possible.

John hadn't been around in the last months and had refused to come along to the crime scenes Sherlock had dared to invite him to. It was possible that after being repelled, Sherlock had simply given up on working with him for good. Maybe doing Mycroft's legwork was Sherlock's way of showing that he didn't need Doctor John Watson as his partner anymore.

Well, _screw him_ , John thought. His broken hand clearly spoke otherwise. He needed John. Maybe he had never needed John's friendship or comfort or partnership, but he certainly needed John's gun and John to pull the trigger. John would never hesitate to do it if Sherlock was in danger.

John didn't know what he would have to do to be around Sherlock again and maintain his emotional defences, but at that very moment, he discovered that it didn't matter. Trying to stay away wasn't doing him any good - that much was obvious – and John was about to take a giant step in his life, he was about to get married, he didn't want to do it without Sherlock. He had to be there at the wedding with John. It was the only possible way.

Oddly enough, just now John was realising he didn't want his life to be divided between the _time he was the blogger_ and the _time he was a married man_. Sherlock had accepted John as the veteran army-doctor John would always be, they would work it out this new dynamic. Of course they would, John thought.

Because if Sherlock was John's best friend, John was Sherlock's.

He wasn't the only friend Sherlock had anymore – John had a feeling that those two years had changed more than Sherlock would be comfortable admitting. But John was still important. Of course he was.

Of course Sherlock would accept to be his best man.

_Sherlock_... The Hat Detective, the lunatic genius, the high-functioning sociopath, the undead man.

John swallowed thickly and felt his heart sink with woe. Sherlock _might_ not accept it. John hadn't really asked anything, he had let Janine do it, for Christ's sake. Maybe Sherlock had run away from the boredom of the oh-so-normal life John now lived. Sherlock might not want any part in it. Maybe that talk had been Sherlock trying to turn it down smoothly.

John was getting angry at himself. Now he was thinking of Sherlock as some reasonable human being with any notion of social convention. Sherlock would never let an opportunity to tell John not to be boring or to roll his eyes at John's outdated sense of adequacy. It was just how things were. Sherlock hadn't been trying to turn John down. If he eventually did that, he would be spirited and cunning, obnoxious and hateful. John would take all of it.

He walked to the guest room and opened the door of wardrobe. Mary had hung Sherlock's coat and scarf pristinely and suggested that John took them to Sherlock at Baker Street. John had refused to do it, but now he thought that maybe they would be his best excuse to pop at Sherlock's flat unannounced.

_Sherlock's flat_. The thought still rang on his own brain like a siren. He made a mental note of never saying that out loud.

Without a second thought, John smoothed the lapel of the coat, feeling the rough fabric and acknowledging the fact that he could tell Sherlock's coats from any other coats by touch alone. It had been a surviving technique and it had helped them more times than John could count. It didn't matter how many ridiculous posh and unnecessarily flipping coats Sherlock had – and he did have too many – John would always be able to tell them apart. It had apparently been so obvious that Sherlock had deemed necessary to make John see a bloodied coat to make _the lie_ more credible.

If John were Sherlock, he would be able to tell where Sherlock had been by simply sniffing the coat and the scarf.

John wish he could do that. He asked himself if Sherlock had used this coat and this scarf wherever he had been beaten or had broken his arm. Sherlock would probably be able to tell in which country the coat had been. _Definitely._ He would definitely be able to do it. If the coat was John's Sherlock would be able to tell the mood John was in when he had put it on.

The thought made John snort, but it was humourless. John had always been so plain and simple. Sherlock had played him as he had saw fit. He would always do it, John would have no illusions about it anymore.

He took the scarf of the hanger and squeezed it between his hands, then brought it to his nose, taking a deep breath, trying to sharpen his mind and be Sherlock for a minute. He tried to associate the smell with any clue he could gather, but it was obviously fruitless.

The only thing John could scent was Sherlock. And maybe Baker Street. Or maybe one and the other were so intrinsically connected in John's olfactory channels that John could not tell them apart. There could never be one without the other – not to John, anyway.

He hung the scarf again and closed the door of the wardrobe. He would return it and the coat to Sherlock personally.

Maybe he could trick him into being his best man in the process.

 

Tricking _Sherlock Holmes_...

Yeah, right.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> _"John knew it was pathetic to feel robbed, but there was no other word for it. He was sure he would have let something slip out of his mouth if his throat hadn't been clogged by the amount of wrongness that was washing over him."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, really thank you all for the comments and kudos!  
> I hope you like this one!

John got  off  the tube feeling bold. It was the adrenaline rush that had always driven him when dealing with all things Sherlock. He would just walk in and tell the detective that  _no_ , he did not have any one else and he did not want any other  person to be his best man. It was the simple truth.

Yes, that was good, that would work.

John had been repeating this mantra the whole way to Baker Street. He wasn't the kind of guy to come up with some sort of scheme to get what he wanted. He had thought about tricking Sherlock into being his best man , and it had been amusing, but it wouldn't be possible. He was the boring John Watson, the one who simply asked for things and talked about them.

At least  _some_ times.

_Rare_ times. Times like this one when what was at stake was too precious for him to let go.

John would've preferred if Sherlock had just gone with it at the dinner party and had accepted to be his best man without further comment.  _'Obviously I have been John's best friend all along. Of course I am going to be the best man_ _,’_ he could have said. But he hadn't, and had run down the stairs without glancing back.

As he walked down the street, John's calm wavered. He squeezed the familiar coat and scarf more tightly. That had been a pathetic excuse, but he actually had to return Sherlock's belongings to him.

He was feeling quite better that day, and had gone to work at the clinic like any normal day. He was so happy for getting out of the house that he didn't mind Mrs. Starkey's ear infection nor little Henry's swallowed nicker. At least it gave him some resemblance of normalcy. Sherlock would probably laugh at his tediousness, but the fact was that John actually liked being there  for  the community, for  real people.

Being Sherlock's doctor had always given John a taste of the exceptional. Sherlock was this kind of extraordinarily designed human being that would never have boring food poisoning like John. He barely  ate , but had more energy than  any other person John had ever known. He had the  craziest  sleeping pattern, but would always be perfectly groomed and put together when the fancy struck  him.

Well, at least he had been like that. For all John knew, Sherlock might be in a eating spree or be a trained high cuisine chef now. John snorted, approaching the familiar door. What he did know, though, was that Sherlock would never just have food poisoning or a cold. He would have acid burns, or a broken limb caused by international criminals or the like.

John sighed at himself. He had tried to forget about that, but it seemed impossible. If he still felt bold after  asking Sherlock to be his best man, he would use his Captain Watson tone and talk the detective into telling him the truth. If Sherlock was even capable of doing that – John had his doubts.

Getting in front of 221, John stopped dead on his tracks. He thought he would have to ring the bell – and it had baffled him – but apparently he needn't have bothered with that. The door was open and coming out of it was a figure John hoped he had missed.

Mycroft Holmes and his umbrella.

The British Government looked at him as if John was an amazing piece of a child's puzzle. John had not missed him at all.

“Ah, John,” Mycroft said, like he hadn't send Sherlock to his fake death and broken John's heart in the process.

“You know, if you could only suspect how much I'd like to run you over with your own damn car, you wouldn't be standing in my way right now,” John said, surprising himself. Sherlock was responsible for his own acts, but John now had some idea of where he had get his cold heart from. 

Mycroft had the guts to laugh.  A  humourless laugh – or at least John thought so. He suspected that he wouldn't know when it came to Mycroft.

“I see the civilian life hasn't done your anger problem any good,” Mycroft said, looking casually at the tip of his umbrella. “But you have always been such a special goldfish, haven't you, Doctor Watson?”

He then looked straight into John's eyes and for a moment John was disconcerted by it. He couldn't tell what it meant, but those eyes weren't the same eyes John was used to face when dealing with the Holmes elder brother.

John narrowed his eyes at him and had the feeling he was being insulted. He decided it wasn't worth to dwell on it.

“I'll just make my way upstairs, then, shall I?” John said, getting past Mycroft and heading to the stairs.

“Of course. Enjoy the couch, John,” Mycroft said, enigmatically, walking to the black car waiting for him.

John didn't know what that was about and discarded it as unimportant. He climbed up the stairs listening to the little noises coming from 221B.

John could hear the small clinks of glass – probably microscope slides being handled, or petri dishes being rearranged in the fridge.

All the noises suddenly stopped and John knew that Sherlock was aware that someone was coming. He asked himself if he knew it was him.

The two doors were open, but the kitchen was apparently empty. John stepped into the living room when Sherlock was just coming over to the door.

“John?” He asked, and the sound reached John's ears even before they had made eye contact. The thought that his footsteps were still known to Sherlock made John smile a little.

Sherlock was dressed in one of his sulking outfits. Pyjamas and dressing gown – John felt glad about it. It soothed him somehow. Sherlock was frowning at him. “What?” John ask.

“You are better,” Sherlock said, simply. He didn't say that John _looked_ better, and he absolutely did not ask, because he certainly knew just by looking at John how his stomach was.

John cleared his throat. “Yes, thank you for asking,” he said, giving Sherlock  _a look_ . Sherlock smirked and shrugged, and his eyes had mirth on them. “How did you know that, by the way?” John asked, trusting Sherlock to understand he was talking about his getting sick in the first place.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him and huffed. “Caper, John, it has never agreed with you.”

John looked at him as if he were mad. John had never in his damn life had any reaction to caper. He wasn't that stupid, for Christ's sake, and he was a bloody doctor.

Sherlock sighed as if John were being difficult. “It has never agreed with you, you just always blamed on something else. The wine, the desert,” he stated, motioning his broken hand vaguely. “It's not something you are used to eat ing , but whenever you did, it always made you feel queasy. You probably had too much of it  that  night, so... There,” he finished, lamely, which struck John as strange.

He looked up at Sherlock and could swear he seemed surprised by his own deduction. John filed the thought together with others that didn't make any sense.

“Well, don't you think you should have _told me_ about it?” John asked. He forced his memory and remembered one time or another when he had felt funny after eating caper sauce at dinner. He had always blamed the drinks or the amount of food. Of course Sherlock would be right about that.

Now Sherlock was the one looking at him as if  _John_ was mad. “I told you about it,” he said simply, frowning.

“I mean _before_. What if I had some stronger reaction to it?” John asked, because it could have been allergies.

Sherlock snorted, arrogantly. “I would have noticed.”

“Well, you haven't always been around, have you?” John said without thinking it through first and regretted it the moment the words came out of his mouth. 

He was right, he knew that. Sherlock hadn't been there for two years, but John hadn't come here for this. He had come to ask him something and to return Sherlock's clothes. John thought about how years before they would have joked about returning Sherlock's clothes like this.  _People_ _will_ _definitely talk_ , one would say.  _They already do little else_ , the other would agree, and they would smirk and life would go on.

John got a hold of himself and offered Sherlock the coat and the scarf. The gloves were in the coat's pockets.

Sherlock took them gingerly, not looking at John's eyes, which made John feel hollow.

“Well, I was there the other night,” Sherlock said, with hints of sulking in his tone and it made John feel a tone lighter.

And yes, he had been. When John had needed it, Sherlock had been there.

“Yes, thank you,” John said, sincerely. Sherlock just gave him a curt nod.

They were still standing close to the door, which John only stopped to notice when Sherlock walked over to hang his coat and scarf. He was surprised when the other man stopped and sniffled them, smoothing the fabrics with a small smile on his face. John asked himself if Sherlock would know he had tried to deduce his whereabouts by them, but he decided not even Sherlock could be that smart. And John had made sure not to leave any marks on them. He knew his friend well enough not to risk it.

When Sherlock walked back and stepped more fully into the living room, John's eyes followed him and his breath got caught in his throat.

He suddenly knew what Mycroft had meant by  _'Enjoy the couch'_ .

There, right in front of the fireplace, there was an armchair. Sherlock's armchair.

And only that.

John knew it was pathetic to feel robbed, but there was no other word for it. He was sure he would have let something slip out of his mouth if his throat hadn't been clogged by the amount of  _wrongness_ that was washing over him. 

Since the first day he had stepped into 221B there had always been two armchairs there. John had never known why, and he had never bothered to ask. After the first month, it had been obvious that that chair could have only been there for  _him_ . He had felt comfortable in it from the very first time, Sherlock knew, he had said that much.

It was John's chair, perfect for him.

Not anymore, apparently.

When receiving a client, Sherlock would sit in his armchair and the client would sit right in front of him, in a random chair. John didn't have a place to be there anymore.

“John?” Sherlock asked, probably not for the first time.

John looked at him without acknowledging it. His eyes flew back to the empty spot.

John had absolutely no right to feel bad about it. That wasn't his house anymore, he had his own house with his fiancée. That empty spot shouldn't make him feel so lost, but it was paralysing him.

It didn't matter. It was just a chair. He could sit on the couch and have tea with Sherlock, or help him, if he wanted.

But then again he would have kept John's chair if he still wanted that. Surely. 

John felt completely stupid by the thought that he wanted a best man, but didn't even have his chair anymore. He decided to get it over with. If Sherlock didn't accept, then John would have some replanning to do about the wedding – or maybe about moving to Anguilla with Mary and pretending London had never happened.

“John?” Sherlock asked again and snapped his fingers in front of John's face. _The bastard_.

John torn his eyes away from the  _not his armchair's_ spot.

Sherlock was looking uncomfortable, his eyes alternating between John's and his own armchair. He opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Can we talk?” John asked to put them both out of that misery. He now just wanted to be done with it. He would ask and he would accept the answer and life would go on.

Sherlock closed his mouth and nodded, pointing to the couch. It just made Mycroft's words echo louder in John's head. John would not enjoy the couch, that wasn't the place to have this  kind of conversation. John wanted to be face to face with Sherlock. He wanted to sit in his damn armchair, that was the truth. He felt suddenly near of throwing a tantrum. Sherlock had probably rubbed off on him.

Neither one of them sat. John looked for any other place they could sit in front of each other, but there simply wasn't any. The desk which had also always been his wasn't there either. It was a  _bachelor_ flat, through and through.

Not that Sherlock hadn't been a bachelor before, of course.

John's brain was short-circuiting. It was almost as if Sherlock had erased his presence altogether. John asked himself if new clients even knew John existed at all. He also asked himself what right  he had  to be angry about it.

But of course he had, for fuck's sake. It had been his life too. He had dedicated himself wholeheartedly to it. Sherlock couldn't just erase him from it. He couldn't do  _that_ .

They were just things, though. They weren't  _John's_ things, they had come with the flat. John had just used them for a while.

They were just things. Things Sherlock didn't want anymore, that were useless. And they weren't any kind of deeper metaphor.

“Kitchen?” Sherlock asked, without bothering to look at John. They both entered the kitchen and sat at the table, in their usual spots.

John wasn't soothed by the fact that Sherlock had kept that chair. It made him question why  he had  bothered at all. Maybe it was being used. John knew Molly came over frequently. If Sherlock had kept that chair, there in the middle of his experiments, it surely didn't have anything to do with  _John_ .

He was being petty, he knew. He just couldn't be bothered to control his own thoughts. They were his own, he could think them as much as he damn well pleased.

John forced himself to stop rambling internally and looked straight at Sherlock. He would ask and get the hell away from there. The  half empty flat was suffocating him.

Sherlock was looking at him intently, expecting John to get the fuck on with it, probably. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat him to it.

“John,” he started awkwardly, “About the chair...”

_Hell no_ , John wasn't having this conversation. Not here, not ever. 

“It's your flat, none of my business,” John said and it sounded strained even on his own ears. He was suddenly aware of how long he had been silent, just taking everything in. Sherlock was certainly aware of everything John was thinking. _Pathetic_.

“Yes,” Sherlock snorted, but he looked angry.

“Right,” John said, not wanting to know why. Sherlock's redecorating really wasn't of his concern. “So,” he continued, not leaving room for Sherlock to say anything else. He would just ask. “It's okay if you don't want to be my best man, but, you know, I have to know for sure,” he said.

Shit.

That wasn't what he meant to say. John told himself to get a fucking grip. He wasn't there to tell Sherlock that it was okay if Sherlock didn't want to be there, he was there to tell him exactly the opposite. It wasn't okay. It wouldn't be okay, no. He had to tell him the truth, John owed  _himself_ that much.

Sherlock had been staring at him for almost half a minute and John was getting creeped out.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock's eyes slowly focused on John's again. He opened and closed his mouth twice after finally say anything.

“You don't want me to be your best man,” he said and it wasn't a question. 

John wanted to throttle him because  _how_ could anyone be so smart and stupid at the same time was beyond John.

“No,” John said, trying to stay calm. “That isn't what I said. I said _if you_ don't want to be the best man, it's okay.”

“Is it?” Sherlock asked, frowning.

John sighed. There simply wasn't the possibility of winning.

He looked from his hands to Sherlock's eyes. “No,” he admitted.

“Is it _not_?” Sherlock asked surprised. He frowned at John and for once John couldn't blame him, he wasn't really making any sense. “I don't understand,” the detective said.

“I know. Just listen, will you listen without getting lost inside your head?”

Sherlock huffed. “Honestly, I can hold to a conversation when I want to.”

John was skeptical. “Okay, and do you  _want_ to?” He retorted.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, sounding stubborn. John would never admit, but he liked the sound of it.

“I _want_ you to be my best man. I would be actually really happy if you accepted to be. Are you following?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded. John smiled at him because Sherlock actually seemed like he was paying attention.

“Although I have to accept if you don't want to, I have no other person to ask this–”

“I'm sure Gary would be–”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John said, simply. “His name is Greg. And no, he wouldn't because I _don't want_ him to be. I'm asking _you_. _You_ are my best friend,” John stopped, searching for something else to say. It was bloody difficult to say things like that and still keep his barriers up. “It'll be you, or it won't be anyone.”

Sherlock was looking at him searchingly. John let himself be read because he knew it was Sherlock's way of trying to make sense of what John had said. People understood words by the feelings in them, Sherlock deduced the feelings on people's faces.

“So... I'm still...,” Sherlock trailed off, unarticulated. He taped his cast with his left hand. “I'm still your best... _friend_?” He asked, and the last word sounded as if Sherlock believed the very idea of it was absurd. John asked himself if he should feel insulted by it.

“What is that supposed to mean? You thought it had changed in four days?” John had already told Sherlock that, it shouldn't be a surprise.

“I didn't think you had meant it,” Sherlock shrugged, trying to act nonchalant.

John felt mostly sad, because even though Sherlock was trying to act as if he didn't mind, John knew he did. It  _had_ to matter to him. John had been around this man since the day they had met, he had tried to keep him safe in all ways he could. Sherlock must have seen it, he must have.

“I've always been here,” John said, simply.

That was suddenly too much, he didn't think he should try to convince Sherlock of anything. If he hadn't get the message in all those months they had lived and worked together and were around each other every day, John didn't know what else he could say or do to show it. “I was always here,” John repeated. And no, he couldn't say anything else. Sherlock had to understand, but John couldn't explain.

“I know. But you always take care of everyone, you save lives, it's what you do,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“No, I took care of _you_ ,” John said, stubbornly. “I was always here, I took care of you, I saved _your_ life,” he swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Look... It's my wedding, one of the most important days of my life and I want to be there with the two most important people for me. Mary and you. Do you accept?”

Sherlock looked stricken. The light reflected in his pale face and his eyes looked almost ghostly. John was hit by what it would mean to him if Sherlock just said  _no_ . It would break the heart he still hadn't had the time to amend.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and his voice was steady and strong. He sounded like he meant it and it made John bask in a relief that must have shown on his face. “Of course I do... It will be my honour, John.”

John smiled truly for the first time since he had stepped out of the clinic that day. He felt giddy with. “Good, that's good,” he said, letting out a nervous giggle. He cleared his throat. “I have the feeling you will understand more about this wedding stuff than me,” he snorted. “I've never seen so many pinks in my life. I'm sure they're all the same.”

“It's _salmon_ , John,” Sherlock said, and the word rolled on his tongue as if he had invented it. “But there can also be salmon pink, coral, and coral pink. Pale pink, baby pink, spanish pink, medium light pink. These seem to be the tones Mary would favour. Depending on the fabric, the tones can vary. The incidence of light on the fabric can also be a factor, of course,” he rambled.

John was struck dumber than ever. What the hell?

“How do you even _know_ that?”

“...Mary would probably go with salmon or light salmon pink, the bridesmaid would complement the white of her dress without obfuscating it...”

John snorted. Of course Sherlock had deduced Mary's preference for pink. John rubbed his face. He couldn't help the loud laughter that was bubbling inside him. “Not even one word about the pastries? You're getting slow there, Hat Detective.”

“Meringue over chocolate,” Sherlock said, proudly.

John laughed harder, drying small tears that appeared in the corner of his eyes. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he had laughed like that. He was so glad for it.

Sherlock's eyes were smiling at him, John was sure of it. They were staring at each other and for a moment John swore everything would be fine with them – with all of them.

“Woo hoo!”

John listened to the familiar voice and felt a burst of warmth in his chest. He looked at the kitchen door just in time to see Mrs Hudson open a big smile at the two of them.

“Oh, hello, John!” She said, coming over to him, not before stopping to pat Sherlock's head. John was sure she was going to ask him if he had behaved. 

John stood up and gave Mrs Hudson a proper hug. It felt like hugging the life he had had there, like hugging  _all_ of it. Sherlock must've noticed because he was observing the scene and he had a rare look in his eyes. John wanted to keep the image in is mind.

Mrs Hudson seemed a bit stricken by John's sudden hug, but she patted his cheek anyway. “It's so good to have you here. Are you boys solving any murders?”

John smiled at Mrs Hudson's question. Trust her to be used to crimes being around Sherlock that much. “No, Mrs Hudson,” John asked, lightly. “I came here today to ask him to be my best man.”

“Oh,” Mrs Hudson said, simply. She smiled at John, but looked quickly at Sherlock. “Have you accepted?” She asked directly to the detective and she didn't sound as joyful as she did a second before. John frowned at it.

“Of course, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, standing up and heading to the living room, with Mrs Hudson right on his heels.

John felt as if his happy bubble had burst and he had no idea why. He walked to the living room too, as if treading dangerous waters.

It was unbelievable how he could be in a room and still feel absent of it. He was right there, but the half furniture seemed to call his name in a distant voice, as if John were being sucked out of the room. The single armchair taunted him. The single desk laughed at him. He would go out of the door and it would be as if he had never been there.

_Would it?_ He asked himself. They were just things. They didn't matter.

John paid attention to the talk Sherlock and Mrs Hudson were having.

“I can't believe I leave for two days and you redecorate your flat,” she was saying, while looking around.

Two days. So the change had happened after the dinner.

John wished he could understand. He had told Sherlock he was his best friend and Sherlock had mostly erased any memory of John as far as his eyes could see.

No, it didn't make any sense to John. He tried to dismiss the thoughts, told himself he would adjust to it. Even if everything around insisted on reminding him that there should be home. Those two figures standing in front of him would always mean  _home_ in some sort of way. John would readjust.

“So, John, I'm sure you're aware of what it is next week,” Mrs Hudson said, pretending she wasn't fishing for his answer.

John looked directly to Sherlock, who mouthed the word  _'birthday'_ to him.

“Of course,” John answered. “How could I ever forget your birthday, Mrs Hudson?” He walked over to her and she enveloped him in a hug. John wasn't fooled for a second that she had believed him, but he accepted the hug anyway, and thanked Sherlock, who was smirking at him, the bastard.

Mrs Hudson was straightening the lapel of his coat. “I'm sure Sherlock has told you about my birthday dinner already,” she said, looking sternly at Sherlock.

“I have not,” the detective said. “I thought you would have given up this ludicrous idea. I can take you out to dinner and be done with it,” he said.

Mrs Hudson tutted at him and John smiled at Sherlock offering himself to take her to dinner. It was actually sweet of him.

“Are you trying to monopolize our landlady?” John asked. 

Sherlock smiled at him. John didn't know why, but he was being presented with one of those blinding smiles. “What?” He asked, smiling back.

“ _Our_ landlady?” Sherlock asked and it didn't stop his smile for a second. John asked himself if he should feel awkward by his mistake, which he didn't.

_Home_ , he thought.

“No need to fuss, you too,” Mrs Hudson interrupted. “And you, Sherlock, can save your money to pay someone to clean this rubbish instead.”

Sherlock frowned. “I have you for that.”

“She's not your housekeeper, you know,” John said, and laughed. Sherlock was scowling, which made everything funnier.

“Ah, John, thank you. I wish you had remembered that while you still lived here, though, some hoovering wouldn't have hurt.”

And Sherlock laughed right back at him.

John took the cushion from the couch and flung it at his head.

“See?” Mrs Hudson said. “Look at the mess you two make.”

Just like that, John could pretend everything was fine.

He purposefully ignored how the empty spot in front of the fireplace threatened to swallow him whole.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Archie had to listen to Celine Dion to finish editing this, so I'm sorry for any feels I have caused you all. (I'm not really sorry, but it's polite to say that, right?)
> 
> Also, I am a **BIG FAN** of meta posts about this show. I'm not gonna tell you how to read the story, but this meta ([Leavin’ the Back Door Open ‘Til You Come Back](http://sweetlatejuliet.tumblr.com/post/73016959784/leavin-the-back-door-open-til-you-come-back)) was totally on my mind when I wrote this chapter. It's one of my favourite metas of all time and it draws a parallel between 221B flat and Sherlock Holmes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> _“As ever, you're as observant as a blind hedgehog,” Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.  
>     
> “Hedgehog?” John asked, frowning. “Good evening to you too, by the way.”_
> 
> _“Good evening, John,” Sherlock said, smiling a little. “Now come upstairs with me, I have great crime scene photos to show you,” he said, already walking to the door._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay. me and my beta were having technical problems.  
> I hope I'll be back to posting on thrusday this week.  
> Thank you for the kudos and for following this story!

Mary snuggled John in the back of the cab. They were tired after the day of work, but Mrs Hudson's birthday dinner simply wasn't an event one could skip. John thought she would probably murder any one of the carefully selected guests who decided not to show up. John and Mary had barely had time to go home to shower and change, but they had happily hopped into the first cab that had appeared.  
  
Mary had found a lovely box collection of all Jane Austen's novels in hard cover with gold spine that John was sure Mrs Hudson would love. Mary and she had not met each other more than a couple of times, but she knew how important Mrs Hudson was to John. In many ways, that night was like a family dinner, almost Mother's Day, and John smiled looking out of the window.  
  
John's family included one Sherlock Holmes, who had been busy for days with a case or another. They hadn't been working together, but John had received some calls asking for his medical opinion. He suspected Sherlock had already known all the answers, but John appreciated being remembered anyway.  
  
Life seemed to be getting on track in a way that scared John to death. He wasn't used to things being smooth and happy, so it seemed like the calm before a storm. His nightmares were always there to remind him that life was never simply that easy.  
  
John felt Mary's body weight over his shoulder and knew she was falling asleep. He nudged her lightly and planted a kiss on the top of her head, while rearranging them so he had his arm around her shoulders.  
  
“Do you want a pillow?” He asked, keeping his voice low.  
  
Mary yawned and smiled. “Nah, I'm making do with you.”  
  
Fifteen minutes later they were getting out of the cab in front of Baker Street. 221B's lights were out – John could not stop himself from noticing. Maybe Sherlock hadn't been able to escape Mrs Hudson's grasp and was being held hostage in her kitchen while wearing an apron and trying her new sauce or something. The thought made John giggle to himself. Mary looked at him amused.  
  
They stopped in front of the door and John frowned. It was still strange to him to not use a key. Since the day John had helped Sherlock to figure out Lord Moran's plan, John had decided not to act as if he lived there anymore. It had been too painful and he was secretly afraid Sherlock himself would ask John to give it back.  
  
He still had it, but the right to use it... That was another matter.  
  
Mary squeezed his hand and kissed his cheek. “I'm sure you could just open the door, they wouldn't mind.”  
  
John looked at her and smiled, self-conscious. He was beginning to think he was an open book to everyone, not just to Sherlock. “I haven't got my key with me.”  
  
“I'll just ring the bell, then, okay?” She asked, already pressing the button.  
  
Mary nudged him, forcing John to stay alone in front of the door. He frowned at her, but before he could say anything, someone opened the door.  
  
The someone was a lovely old lady who John did not recognize, but who looked absolutely delighted to see him.  
  
“John Watson!” She exclaimed.  
  
“Yes, that is me,” he answered awkwardly and smiled. She didn't seem like she was going to say anything else. “I'm sorry, but you are...?”  
  
The old lady seemed disconcerted. “Oh, my god, I'm so sorry, I feel like I've known you for so long... I completely forgot... Here,” she extended one hand to him, “I'm Louise Reid, Martha's sister.”  
  
“Oh, of course,” John said, relaxing. He took her hand and let himself be swiped down for a peck on the cheek. It really was like meeting an aunt. John liked her immediately, because how could he not?  
  
“I've been wanting to meet you for so long,” she was saying while motioning him and Mary to come along.  
  
“This is Mary, my fiancée,” John told her, and Mrs Reid hugged her with no hint of uncertainty. She had barely entered his family and was already one of John's favourite. But then again, in this tiny family, everyone was John's favourite.  
  
The three of them entered Mrs Hudson's flat and were met by the amazing smell of her cooking. John's mouth watered. He noticed Mary was having the same reaction.  
  
“You have no idea how many times I have escaped downstairs to eat her food,” he whispered in her ear.  
  
“I totally understand that,” she smiled, looking around.  
  
They all entered the kitchen where Mrs Hudson was applying the final touches to what John recognized as a roast lamb. He had eaten before and, by god, had he missed it.  
  
“There you are,” Mrs Hudson said, while putting the roast back in the oven.  
  
She came by and hugged John and Mary. “I'm so glad you came... As if you could have gotten away with anything else.”  
  
“I would never miss your cooking, Mrs Hudson,” he laughed. John took the bag Mary was handing him and offered to Mrs Hudson. “Happy birthday!”  
  
“Oh,” Mrs Hudson tutted at him, even though smiling. “You didn't have to worry about presents, John.”  
  
“Ah, come on, you deserve it for taking care of us. God knows how we haven't driven you mad yet,” John joked.  
  
“Now that is true, young man,” she gave him a kiss. “Well, everything is in order here. Let's go to the sitting room so I can open my present,” she said, dangling the bag with an excited expression on her face.  
  
They all gathered in the living room and Mrs Reid served them all with wine while they ate little asparagus and blue cheese muffins Mrs Hudson had brought from the kitchen on a tray. They were delicious and John tried very hard not to let out inelegant noises while digging into them. He looked sideways at Mary, who was eating with her eyes closed.  
  
“God, this is divine,” she sighed, after swallowing her first bite. “Really, absolutely incredible,” and took another bite.  
  
“I'm so glad you like,” Mrs Reid smiled. “I made these ones. It's a personal favourite of mine.”  
  
“Make it one of mine too,” John said.  
  
Mrs Reid looked proud. “And you can eat away, John. I didn't go anywhere near caper while making this,” she winked at him.  
  
Mary smirked at John, who was feeling touched by the gesture, but also curious about how she had know in the first place.  
  
“That was very kind of you, but how-”  
  
“Sherlock has made it crystal clear that you aren't to eat caper anymore, you know,” Mrs Hudson interjected. “He would probably destroy all my walls if I served you anything with it.”  
  
Mary giggled at John's frown.  
  
Mrs Hudson put her glass on the coffee table and opened her present, taking care not to tear the paper. She inhaled audibly and John could tell she was surprised.  
  
“Oh, John...,” she looked at him with watery eyes. “What a gorgeous thing.” She showed the box to her sister, who was apparently also a Jane Austen's fan.  
  
“To tell you the truth, it was Mary's find. I didn't know they could come in this lovely box set. But I know you would like them.”  
  
“Oh, it is lovely. I'll rearrange all my bookshelf to put it on a good spot.”  
  
“It will surely look good on my bookshelf,” Mrs Reid giggled, hugging the box to her chest.  
  
“Oh, no, you stay away from my books,” Mrs Hudson said, taking the present back. “She is slowly transferring all my books to her house,” she told Mary and John, while her sister shook her head at her, clearly denying all the accusations. “I had to hide the John Keats Sherlock brought me the other day.”  
  
“I'll look through your things while you're sleeping,” Mrs Reid shrugged.  
  
John was having fun watching them banter. He had never stopped to think about what fraternity would mean in old age. He felt his heart tug thinking about Harry and how they would probably never have this.  
  
Something caught John's attention, though.  
  
“Does Sherlock even know who John Keats was?” He asked, amused.  
  
Mrs Hudson smiled at him, knowingly. “Well, he knew enough to buy me this antique edition. I'll show you when Lou isn't around, she isn't trustworthy around books.”  
  
Mrs Reid dismissed Mrs Hudson's last words. “That's right, he didn't know the Earth went around the sun,” she mused.  
  
John raised his eyebrows at her, surprised. Did people still remember that?  
  
“Oh, don't ask,” Mrs Hudson groaned.  
  
“Many people read your blog, John. I'm a fangirl myself,” Mrs Reid said, despite Mrs Hudson's protests.  
  
“A bit old to be calling yourself girl,” Mrs Hudson pointed out to her sister.  
  
“Anyway, John,” Mrs Reid continued, ignoring it, “I'm a huge fan of you two.”  
  
John felt awkward about it, because the first thing he thought of saying was 'I am a huge fan of us too'. He smiled. “Thank you so much. He is the genius, though, I'm just the blogger.”  
  
Or was the blogger, John didn't say.  
  
Maybe just dead weight that Sherlock had left behind without looking back.  
  
John cut the cloud of thoughts firmly. He was not going to let it spoil their evening.  
  
“Where is he, by the way?” Mrs Reid asked.  
  
“Ah, who knows these days?” Mrs Hudson told them, standing up and going to the kitchen, to get another bottle of wine and take another look at the roast. Mary went to help her.  
  
“I have no idea either, Mrs Reid,” John said.  
  
“Oh, please, call me Lou.” She seemed so eager that John felt he couldn't deny her anything. He was probably going to buy her one of the box sets, if only to prevent her from stealing Mrs Hudson's present.  
  
“Of course, Lou,” and it sounded wrong to address his aunt in such informal way, but John kept going. “I have no idea either. Probably working on something.”  
  
“Of course,” she nodded. Her face grew more serious and she looked at John in a way that conveyed all her life experience. “It must have been hard on you, you know... All  that.”  
  
John felt incapable of being angry at her for talking about it. He nodded and looked at the rim of his empty glass. Just a simple sentence and it couldn't have been more accurate. It had been hard on him. In fact, it had been excruciating.  
  
She patted his hand and he looked up at her. His thoughts must have been clear on his face because she squeezed his hand and didn't let it go.  
  
“I can imagine, John. I've lost my husband and it was the worst thing that ever happened to me,” she said, low and heartfelt.  
  
John tried to recoil from the sudden shift in the room. He didn't want to remember those things right now. “Oh, we weren't together like that,” he said, idiotically.  
  
“Oh, don't be silly, I know you weren't,” she dismissed it, surprising John. “But does it matter? To lose someone you love, having to get used to the idea of them being driven from you, is the worst pain one can feel, dear. It doesn't matter which name one is calling it.”  
  
She squeezed John's hand again and let it go. Mrs Hudson's and Mary's voice were growing louder.  
  
He had been struck dumb by her words. He was still holding her gaze and she smiled at him encouragingly.  
  
“I know his coming back doesn't change what you went through,” she whispered, almost as if telling him a secret. “It's okay to still feel it.”    
  
John tried to smile at her, or maybe thank her, but he couldn't. He knew her words would ricochet inside him all night. There had never been truer words to John.  
  
“Martha let me have a taste of the roast potatoes!” Mary said, joining John on the couch.  
  
He took a sip of his refilled glass of wine and closed his eyes, trying to swallow back the feelings. He didn't feel heavy or defeated, though, which was a novelty in itself. He just felt washed by all the kindness in Mrs Reid's words and how she seemed to understand, not asking anything from him, just trying to make him feel less inadequate.  
  
He opened his eyes again and Mary was looking at him expectantly.  
  
“Are you okay?” She asked, confused.  
  
He smiled at him. “Yes,” he answered, honestly.  
  
  
The door was suddenly opened and Sherlock came in, dramatic as ever. His coat swirled behind him and his presence seemed almost aggressive in the quiet room.  
  
He came to a halt in front of Mrs Hudson, who had stood up to greet him. All the sharpness was melted in one hug. “Good evening, Mrs Hudson,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.  
  
John never ceased to be touched by that image. He smiled and hid it with his glass.  
  
The second one to greet Sherlock was Mrs Reid, of course. She could barely contain her excitement over meeting the great Sherlock Holmes, although John suspected she was meeting Mrs Hudson's boy and not the celebrity.  
  
For once, John was not worried about what Sherlock might say. He knew that he would never hurt Mrs Hudson or her sister in any way. It just reaffirmed the familiarity John had been feeling since he had got there.  
  
“Ah, Mrs Reid,” Sherlock smiled at her, “-oof,” he let out when she hugged him. He looked at John with wide eyes, but John just smiled at him. Sherlock hugged back, a bit reluctantly.  
  
“God, I'm so sorry. I'm embarrassing myself today. It's a huge pleasure to meet you, Sherlock.”  
  
“Thanks,” Sherlock answered and made it sound like a question.  
  
“I never got the chance to thank you for what you have done.”  
  
Sherlock frowned and looked at John as if John should be the one explaining all that.  
  
“Oh, silly man,” Mrs Reid said, amused. She entangled her left arm on Mrs Hudson's right one. “For saving Martha from that utter son of bitch,” she said, simply.  
  
“Lou!” Mrs Hudson reproached her. “Honestly, your language.”  
  
Sherlock was looking at Mrs Reid as if she had just appeared in front of him.  
  
“Well,” Mrs Reid sniffled indignantly. “He was a completely twat.”  
  
John couldn't help himself, he let out a giggle, which seemed to set off Sherlock too and in a heartbeat all the room was filled with laughter. It was a marvellous sound.  
  
Mary was drying tears of laughter of her eyes. “My god, can we keep her?”  
  
“Oh, we already have,” John said, honestly.  
  
They turned to the others again.  
  
“It was my pleasure, Mrs Reid, you can be sure of that,” Sherlock said, smiling at Mrs Hudson.  
  
Sherlock came over and Mary gave him a hug.  
  
“Thank you for your help choosing my bridesmaids dresses,” she said, patting him on the back. “That was the right salmon.”  
  
John frowned. “I was the one who picked it out.”  
  
Mary smiled at him indulgently, but turned to Sherlock. “I know it was you, he changed his choice after coming here. I'm not stupid.”  
  
“Now, come on, they do look exactly the same,” John said, in his own defence.  
  
“As ever, you're as observant as a blind hedgehog,” Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.  
  
“Hedgehog?” John asked, frowning. “Good evening to you too, by the way.”  
  
“Good evening, John,” Sherlock said, smiling a little. “Now come upstairs with me, I have great crime scene photos to show you,” he said, already walking to the door.  
  
“But it's Mrs Hudson's birthday!” John argued, even though his legs were already taking him out of the door.  
  
“Oh, she doesn't mind. Do you, Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock shouted.  
  
 “I'm used to this by now,” she said. John could imagine Mrs Hudson tutting at the two of them.  
  
John heard Mrs Reid say “Oh, it's exciting!”  
  
“Since when do you take photos of crime scenes?” John asked, climbing up the stairs.  
  
“I don't. Anderson stole these ones for me.”  
  
“Anderson? My god, have you replaced me with Anderson?” John asked, more amused then hurt. The thought was so bizarre that made him want to giggle.  
  
They stepped into the sitting room, and Sherlock turned to John, looking at him as if he was the most stupid human being on Earth.  
  
“Don't be stupid, you could never be replaced, even if I was trying,” he said, dismissively.  
  
It took John completely by surprise, not only the words, but the tone implied, as if it had been obvious all along. He tried to wrap his head around it, but it seemed impossible. It had probably been the kindest thing Sherlock had ever said to him.  
  
John looked up and noticed that Sherlock had stepped upon a chair and was looking for something between his books.  
  
John wanted to know what that was about, but he could only think that apparently he was irreplaceable.  
  
Sherlock stepped down from the chair holding a little box.  
  
John looked at the empty spot where his chair used to be. He felt bold.  
  
“I'm irreplaceable, then?”  
  
Sherlock lifted his eyes from the little box to John's. “Yes.”  
  
“But I am... deletable?”  
  
Sherlock frowned at him. John just stared back.  
  
Sherlock looked around and scowled. “No, you are not. And I would know, I've tried.”  
  
John thought that being punched in the face hurt less than that. Sherlock had tried to delete him, after everything. John asked himself what the fuck had he done to deserve that.  
  
“Don't be a hypocrite,” Sherlock sounded angry. Angry at John, which had never been usual. “How many times have you wished you had never met me?”  
  
“Well, I was not the one who-,” John stopped himself.  
  
“Yes, finish it, will you? You were not the one who was wrong, so you can wish all you want, of course. I'm sorry, I am sorry. Does it matter? No.”  
  
He had started pacing, holding the little box in one of his hands, while the broken one cut the air in sharp gestures.  
  
“Look at us both, best friends wishing they had never met,” he said, and cleared his throat.  
  
John watched as Sherlock put his cold distant mask on again and felt himself getting hysterical with it. What the fuck had he been thinking anyway? It hurt to admit, but Sherlock was right, John had wished more than once that he had never met him. The worst of all was that he could not imagine that. He would never prefer a life without the insufferable man in front of him. Given a thousand possibilities, John would always choose to meet him.  
  
No, he thought, the worst of it was that he was never going to say that to Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock pushed the box in John's hand. “I brought you here to ask if this is adequate to Mrs Hudson,” he said, sounding uncomfortable. John absolutely hated it.  
  
He opened the box because what he could do was to be John, Sherlock's friend, the one who translated social niceties to him.  
  
They were pearl earrings.  
  
“Are these genuine?” He asked, startled.  
  
“Yes, are they wrong?”  
  
“Wrong? No, of course not, she is going to love them, I'm sure of it. This is very nice of you,” John said honestly.  
  
Sherlock shrugged and took the box back, walking out of the door and leaving John to follow. “She deserves them, she puts up with me.”  
  
It felt almost like a jab from a knife to John's heart. He knew it hadn't been Sherlock's intention, but he couldn't help thinking that maybe Sherlock thought that John simply didn't want to put up with him anymore. Maybe now John featured in the list of people that had deserted him in some way. And he couldn't understand, he hadn't been the one doing the leaving.  
  
But before John could think of anything to say, the two of them had reached Mrs Hudson's sitting room and the table was already being set.  
  
“Sherlock,” Mrs Reid approached him as soon as he entered the room. “Martha also told be about those terrible bullies who came here looking for something and assaulted her!” She shook her head. “What was that? Some kind of mob?”  
  
“Close enough, Mrs Read. CIA,” Sherlock smirked.  
  
“Call me Lou, please,” she patted his shoulder. “But I don't remember reading that on your blog, John.”  
  
“Oh, you know how it goes... National secret, I couldn't disclose it to the public.”  
  
“Of course, I understand,” Mrs Reid – no, Lou – said. “I'm sure you two taught them a lesson.”  
  
John snorted. “Sherlock threw the guy out of the window after beating him to a pulp.”  
  
“Well done,” Mrs Reid approved. “That was around the time of that mysterious post about The Woman,” she mused.  
  
John was impressed. She not only knew his posts by heart, but could remember their order. She had an amazing memory for someone of her age. John doubted anyone else knew his blog like that.  
  
Sherlock looked at John willing him to give an explanation for all of that, as if he had given a heads up to Mrs Reid.  
  
John lifted his hands in a defence gesture. “Hey, she is your fan.”  
  
“No, she is your fan,” Sherlock retorted.  
  
“I'm a fan of you both,” she patted their cheeks. It really was like being a boy sometimes. “You complement each other's skills, we can tell,” she said, simply.  
  
She had already walked to the kitchen to continue bringing the food to the table and Sherlock and John were left in the sitting room feeling awkward and averting each other's eyes.  
  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Sherlock's words hadn't stopped echoing in John's head. Best friends who wished they had never met. It was unbearably sad, especially because it was true. John had wished that, he had to admit. He had wished when he had discovered the truth about Sherlock's death, when he had felt all the hurt of being tricked. He had wished it again and again after the first nightmares, after refusing to join Sherlock in crime scenes._
> 
>  
> 
> _And at the same time it was unbearably sad because it wasn't true. Not like that. John had wished, yes, but he had never really wanted that. Sherlock had changed his life and John had absolutely no idea where he would be if he had not met Sherlock and shared a life with him."_

Mrs Hudson's cooking was delicious, of course. They tried to keep the conversation going, but the truth was that Mary was too busy delighting herself with the food. Mrs Hudson and Mrs Reid were paying too much attention to the wine.

John and Sherlock were too quiet.

John envied Sherlock for his crazy eating patterns. Nobody had batted an eyelash at his mostly untouched food, but John had to eat all of his not to raise any suspicion. It was delicious, but his throat was still clogged with his and Sherlock's earlier altercation. 

Sherlock's words hadn't stopped echoing in John's head. _Best friends who wished they had never met_. It was unbearably sad, especially because it was true. John had wished that, he had to admit. He had wished when he had discovered the truth about Sherlock's death, when he had felt all the hurt of being tricked. He had wished it again and again after the first nightmares, after refusing to join Sherlock in crime scenes.

And at the same time it was unbearably sad because it wasn't true. Not like that. John had wished, yes, but he had never really _wanted_ that. Sherlock had changed his life and John had absolutely no idea where he would be if he had not met Sherlock and shared a life with him.

And he didn't have the tiniest wish to know. What John was now was a direct result to what Sherlock had meant to him, of what he still meant. And John had been hurt, it was true. In more ways than he cared to analyse, he was a broken man as a result of Sherlock's direct actions, but he wouldn't change that. John was also a capable doctor, had access to all the adrenaline he needed and, most important, was the best friend of the most extraordinary human being on Earth. 

If Sherlock thought for a second that all the times John had wished that, John had really meant it, then John had to work on that. He had no idea how, but he had to. Sherlock was a high-functioning sociopath, but John wasn't wasn’t good at having heart to hearts, either. He had the feeling that when it came down to one another, both of them were emotionally stunted. He asked himself why that would be. 

John lifted his eyes from his plate and fixed them on Sherlock, who was sat right in front of him, talking to Mrs. Reid about one of his experiments.

He couldn't forget her words either. She had been absolutely right. 

Jokes about he and Sherlock being a couple aside, the truth was that Sherlock was one of the people John loved most in the world. Years ago, when all that happened, Sherlock and John had been living a co-dependent life, sharing bills and work, tea and crap telly. And all that had been ripped off him in a second.

He didn't think Mrs Reid would understand, but it hadn't been like losing a husband or a wife, in any way. It had been like losing a limb, an oxygen flask. 

John brought his hands to his lap and rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers. He took his glass of wine and washed down the bitterness that always came with those thoughts. He looked up at Sherlock again. Sherlock, who was right in front of him, even after being dead for two years.

John had been given a second chance. Something Mrs Reid and many others – everyone who wasn’t dealing with Sherlock Holmes, for that matter – would never have.

In John's case, his limb had been reattached, his oxygen flask had been refilled. He was sharing a meal with his whole family in a way he hadn't experienced before. And he had Sherlock to thank for, in a way. Even if John had brought Mary to have dinner, it wouldn't have been the same if Sherlock had really been dead.

Sherlock had heard him. He had never made a habit out of it, but he had done it, for once.

When John came back to himself, Sherlock was staring at him. He wanted to ask _'What?'_ , but knew it was one of those times Sherlock would just stare at him and then not answer when John asked what that was about. John just continued looking at him, and took another sip of his wine to give himself something to do.

“We've been missing new posts on your blog, John,” Mrs Reid said, out of the blue, startling John. He didn't know what to answer to that. He missed them too.

“Care to share some new cases with us, Sherlock?” She asked.

John looked at him with interest. He, too, wanted to know.

Sherlock cleared his throat and smiled a little, awkwardly. “There's been nothing interesting these weeks.”

“Oh, I'm sure there's something,” Mrs Reid tutted. The wine had left her even more expansive. “Your cases are always so thrilling.” 

Sherlock smiled more openly. “That's because you know them through John's eyes. He tended to romanticize things a bit. But then, you know, he has always been a romantic.” He looked at Mary and winked at her.

“You're the drama queen,” John retorted. And, okay, maybe he was being a bit childish. Just a bit. 

Sherlock looked at him, indignant. “I'm tall, my presence is naturally impressive,” he huffed. 

John feigned outrage. “What is that supposed to mean? I'm tall enough.”

“God, these two, honestly,” Mrs Hudson scolded while Mary giggled at John's face and Mrs Reid watched everything with mirth in her eyes. “It's like having overgrown kids around.”

“Not too overgrown, in John's case,” Sherlock pointed out, and Mary let out a loud laughter. John was going to have words with her about that.

He did what any respectable ex-army doctor would have done in that situation. He kicked Sherlock's shin under the table. 

“Ow,” Sherlock cried out. “Really? Very mature, John, very.”

“You're the one to talk.” 

“Boys, please, behave,” Mary managed to find some words in the middle of her giggle fit.

John looked at her and snorted, but tried to keep himself from laughing.

How could he go from broken soldier to happy schoolboy in seconds around Sherlock was something he would never understand. He looked at the man across from him again and could swear he was thinking the same thing. That was probably why they were best friends who had wished they had never met, but would never leave each other alone.

“Ah, this is so nice,” Mrs Reid was saying. “I didn’t imagine you would be so fun to have around.”

Sherlock smiled at her. “We aren't. We’re on our best behaviour for Mrs Hudson's birthday, and I was just kicked, so I don't know about that either.”

Mrs Hudson tutted. “They _are_ lovely, Lou, I told you,” Mrs Hudson patted her sister's hand. “She worries about me being here alone. But I always tell her, I'm not alone.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock can drive anyone around the bend, of course,” she said, looking pointedly at him, “But I wouldn't trade my boys for anything.” 

John was so fucking glad for that plural that he couldn't contain his smile if he wanted.

Sherlock chose this moment to slide the little box on the table to Mrs Hudson, who just stared back at him. He smiled awkwardly at her and made a vague motion with his hand, willing her to open the present.

“Happy birthday,” he said quietly.

John asked himself why Sherlock had chosen that moment to give her the present if he was so embarrassed by it, but the truth was that Sherlock was probably trying to escape the heart-to-heart conversation that would surely follow the gift.

She finally took the box, opened it, and gasped at the view of the earrings. “Sherlock,” she said, simply. John could see that her eyes were wet. “I can't accept this present, it's too much.” 

“Nonsense,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes at her. He cleared his throat. “My mother says you women always like pearls, so I thought these would fit. John tells me they are right, so there, they are yours.” 

“They are gorgeous, dear, thank you,” Mrs Hudson said, standing up and coming over to Sherlock so she could give him an awkward hug, since he was still sitting.

Mrs Reid and Mary were talking quietly about how beautiful the earrings were, but John could not tear his eyes away from Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. His heart tugged quite painfully in his chest and for the life of him, John couldn't tell why.

 

* * *

 

After the pudding, they were still at the table, talking about some of Sherlock's old cases. Mrs Reid's excitement didn't seem to be wearing off and the never ending supply of wine left the two sisters more agreeable.

Sherlock and John had just retold her the case of Henry and the gigantic hound, and Mrs Reid was staring at them both with wide eyes. John had to admit that he had missed that. Sherlock, for all his love for the dramatic, was never really fond of the general public – which made John feel a bit guilty after the press had been used to destroy his reputation. But the truth was that John liked seeing Sherlock being acknowledged for the job he had invented and the work at which he was the best in the world.

After being quiet for some time, Mrs Hudson let out a contented sigh. “It's really good to have you here,” she said, looking at John. “Sherlock gets very lonely here without you,” she said, hiding her mouth from the other guests, but without really bothering to low her voice.

John looked intently at Sherlock, who just rolled his eyes.

“There was enough wine for today, Mrs Hudson,” he said, without looking at John.

Mrs Hudson ignored him and continued to talk to the others. “I can't imagine how he lived without us before, you know” she shook her head. She looked at John reproachfully. “You, young man, can't just be a stranger like this.”

John felt properly scolded. He knew Mrs Hudson was more than a bit drunk, but he knew she meant every single word. Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

Mrs Hudson turned to her sister. “He took John's chair out of the living room, have I told you that? So sad. Who does that, really?”

John looked at Mrs Hudson in a different light. It was almost as if she was saying...

But she was drunk and, although she was one of the closest people to Sherlock, she couldn't know what went on in that head of his.

Sherlock stood up abruptly, buttoning his jacket. “Isn't it time to be calling it a night?”

“Why don't you and John go do the washing up?” Mary intervened. John was glad for it, although he couldn't imagine Sherlock washing anything _ever_.

“Mary is absolutely right, you two should go. I have a million wedding things to ask her and you would just get in our way,” Mrs Reid said, while taking Mrs Hudson's glass out of her reach.

It surprised John that for once in his life Sherlock didn't complain about being told what to do. He grabbed as many plates as he could with one hand and waited for John to bring the rest of the tableware to the kitchen.

He couldn't really help to do the washing, since he was still in the cast, so he took his place at John's right side and dried what he could with one hand.

They worked silently. John kept trying to find just the exact words to apologize without making Sherlock feel uncomfortable.

Sherlock groaned. “It's physically painful for me watching you think. Say it at once,” he said, arrogantly, not looking at John. 

“She's right, you know,” John said, simply. Sherlock looked sideways at him, but didn't say anything. “I'm sorry.”

Sherlock placed the plate he was holding on the drying rack. “John...”

“No, just... It's true, I'm sorry. And for earlier too,” John turned off the water and dried his hands on the dishcloth. He sighed and turned fully to Sherlock. “I've never wished—”

Sherlock huffed.

“I _never_ really wished to not have met you. I thought that, but it's not something I could really wish. Did you?” John felt stupid for asking because Sherlock had actually tried to do it, had gotten rid of all John's things.

Sherlock took another plate and started drying it slowly. He cleared his throat without once looking at John. “No,” he answered, still rubbing the cloth on the plate. It was a dull movement, something to prevent him from being too exposed. John was used to this. 

“Sherlock,” John said, grabbing the sleeve of Sherlock's jacket. Sherlock left the plate on the sink and finally, finally, looked at him. His eyes were mostly green, blindingly bright. “All this, we have to stop.”

Sherlock sighed and tugged at his hair. “I don't know _how_ , John. I'm trying!”

“I know,” John tried to soothe him. It was the truth, John knew that. John had been paralysed, trying to stay away and protect himself from all the pain Sherlock had the power to inflict upon him.

“It's not my fault you are having nightmares again,” Sherlock said, quietly, because of course he had deduced that.

John sighed. He leaned back on the sink and looked at the wall in front of him. “It is, you know. It really, _really_ is,” he said, not accusingly, just sadly.

Sherlock stared at the side of John's face for a good minute. John could listen only to the sound of their breathing. It suddenly felt as if the whole building, the whole street and the whole city were completely empty but for them.

“Oh,” Sherlock let out, finally. John wanted to ask how had he _not_ known this. But of course he hadn't. Apparently Sherlock was always underestimating his place in other people's lives.

John cleared his throat. “It doesn't matter. You can't change that, I know this... I just...” John trailed off, unsure of what to say. He just _what_? Thought he could continue to push them apart and be okay with that? Took it out on Sherlock the fact that his mind couldn't deal with him. 

“Well, I can't now, my hand is broken,” Sherlock muttered. John didn't know if he was aware he had said it at all.

“What does that have to do with anything?” He asked.

“When you listen to the violin as you’re just about to enter your REM sleep, your dreams are less violent. After a week or two of daily violin sessions, the nightmares are bound to stop if you aren't met with other triggers,” Sherlock explained.

 _You're my trigger,_ John thought _._ He looked sideways at Sherlock and knew that he didn't have to say it out loud to be heard. Sherlock looked at his own feet. “How do you know this works?”

The right corner of Sherlock's lips turned slightly up. “Experiment,” he said simply.

John felt a burst of warmth invade his chest. “You used to monitor my nightmares, didn't you?”

“Not good?”

“No... It's fine,” John snorted. It was actually absolutely, _incredibly_ fine. He couldn't explain how fine it was.

“I just wanted to know exactly when to begin playing. It worked. It works,” he corrected himself. His eyes went distant for a moment. “But anyway, I can't play the violin and you don't live here anymore. So...” he shrugged.

It was the truth, simple statements of the truth, but John couldn't help hate it. Sherlock had taken care of him when nobody was watching, just as John had done. John asked himself vaguely if Sherlock was feeling the same hollowness in his heart that John was experiencing.

John turned to the sink again and turned on the water to fill the sudden silence with something. He planted his hands on the sink and looked at his feet, sighing heavily. “This, all this,” he said, motioning vaguely around him, “Us, I miss it.” 

“You headbutted me last time I implied that.”

“I miss _everything_ ,” John said, turning to him fully.

John wanted to explain that he didn't just miss the thrill of the chase and to be sided with Sherlock against the world. He missed the violin and the tea. He missed watching Sherlock while he spoiled every single thing they tried to watch on the telly. John wished he could list all the little things he randomly remembered during the day and that made his heart sink with a bitter sense of longing.

He wished he could tell Sherlock about how missing him didn't mean he didn't hate everything sometimes, that it actually made everything hurt worse.

Sherlock looked at him as someone who had no idea of what to say. He tucked one his hands in his pockets while the broken one hung awkwardly along his body, and leaned on the sink. “I do, too. Miss, I mean. You.”

Sherlock was rarely inarticulate like this. It was the best sign to John that he was telling the truth.

John started to wash another plate, but touched his shoulder to Sherlock's side. “Maybe it won't be like before, but everything that will come now, I want you in it,” John nudged him lightly. He knew he was being almost delusional, that things wouldn't be easier just because he had said the words. There would be pain and awkwardness and he would feel absent and lost, but he had to try. “Do you get it?”

Sherlock just nodded.

“Good,” John said, with his throat tight.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, they were all reunited in Mrs Hudson's living room, saying their goodbyes after what ended up being a great night. John was still feeling the buzz Sherlock's words had left in his ear. He looked at him while he hugged Mary and thought about how he wished to listen to Sherlock's violin again. He couldn't help the melancholy at that thought. It wouldn't be the same thing.

Mrs Reid hugged him tightly, patting his cheek and complementing his writing skills once more. She demanded to know about any new cases immediately and told them that the fans missed them. _They aren't the only ones_ , John thought, and once more, he was sure Sherlock had listened. He was presented with one of his little secretive smiles.

Mrs Hudson told him in no uncertain terms that he ought to come by more frequently. Hugging Mary, she told her to force John to come visit. Mary winked at him knowingly. He was sure he wouldn't hear the end of it, but it didn't matter. He didn't need to be forced to do anything.

Mary, Mrs Hudson, and Mrs Reid walked to the door, exchanging numbers and talking about the wedding. They said their goodbyes with a promise that Mrs Reid would surely be on the guest list of their wedding. Obviously.

John and Sherlock ended up alone in the hallway for a moment. 

“You never got to show me those crime scene photos, after all,” John said, and smiled.

Sherlock smiled back. It was a good a view. “You could come by tomorrow to see them, if you'd like. I'd like you to.”

“Yes, sounds good,” John said while they walked to the door.

“Good,” Sherlock answered.

Mrs Hudson and Mrs Reid had already said their last goodbyes to Mary and John and went back to Mrs Hudson's. Mary was flagging a cab.

“Good night, John”, Sherlock said, awkwardly. John could swear there was a bit of reluctance in his tone, or maybe it was just the echo of his own feelings. It was still strange to leave 221B. He asked himself if he was ever going to get used to it. 

He wouldn't know what led him to do it, but John lifted his left hand and squeezed the back of Sherlock's neck lightly, surprising both of them. Before he could stop himself, he rubbed his thumb over the smooth skin, thinking that Sherlock had absolutely no right to feel that warm in February.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” he said, letting his hand fall on his side. He could still feel the warmth in them. The sudden burning made him want to fidget. He flexed his fingers instinctively.

“Yes,” Sherlock said and his voice seemed strained, but John didn't trust himself to look at him again. He was afraid he would do something crazy like trying to hug Sherlock or something like that.

John closed the door behind him and walked over to the cab that was pulling over. He fought back the urge to stare at the door uselessly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!  
> 1) Thank you for the kudos!
> 
> 2) I gave up having one certain day of the week to update this. real life gets in the way. so I'll try to update every week, but it will be a surprise! sorry for that, but it's the best I can do :D


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
>  
> 
> _"In a way, John and Sherlock were alike. When it came to his profession, John knew he was bloody good at it. He hadn't invented it, no. But he always tried to learn everything that was to know about the human body. He had been a trauma surgeon in a war zone. A random doctor could forget to mention – or be forced to do so – the striations on Sherlock's ulna and radius. But some signs would never go unnoticed to an army doctor._
> 
>  
> 
> _When in service in Afghanistan, one got used to seeing those marks on other fellow soldiers' x-rays. Especially those who had been rescued from behind the enemy line, after enduring torture for weeks."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kudos and the comments! They make my day.  
> I hope you all like what is coming. (:
> 
> Also, I think I should warn you that this story is very slowly built. I'm planning something long and I won't rush things. I'm having fun writing it, and I'm trying to do my best. It's my way of being near Sherlock and John during the hiatus. I hope you enjoy the ride. \o/

**Stop being an idiot, John. You have a key, use it. SH**   


John stared at his phone, trying to feel exasperated, but the truth was that he was relieved. He was looking forward to opening 221b's door himself.

Sherlock had told him he was busy with an experiment and _couldn't possibly_ – his words – walk down the stairs to open the door. John hadn't believed him for a minute.

John smiled, looking ahead at the black door across the street. He glanced at the window, but Sherlock was probably too busy trying to blow up the whole damn neighbourhood to be standing there.

He took the key out of his pocket and listened to their tinkling sound. Small pleasure.

The moment was completely different from that one, months ago, when he had come here to talk to Mrs Hudson about Mary. It was different from walking into a half dead place. It didn't erase what had happened, but it surely left a much better taste in his mouth.

The click of the locker sent a familiar jolt through his arm. Excitement, but more, something tender and also bitter he couldn't quite name, he never could.

Closing the door behind him, he took a deep breath and remembered hearing his and Sherlock's voices coming from the walls. Those walls would always have their voices. Maybe even to Mrs Hudson.

" _Bollocks!_ "

The curse startled John out of his reverie. He was definitely not used to hearing anything of the like.

It was shocking, but he was too amused to worry about what Sherlock might be destroying in the kitchen. If he rushed up the stairs, it was only because he was curious.

" _Hell!_ "

John stepped into the kitchen and laughed at the ruinous image he was presented with. Sherlock was perched over his microscope, his hair in disarray. The table looked chaotic. He was trying to manoeuvre three glass slides with his broken hand and taking notes with his left one – because _of course_ Sherlock Holmes could be ambidextrous whenever he felt like it.

John didn't want to irritate him, but the situation was too endearing to be left alone.

"I didn't know you could write with your left hand," he said, casually, as if he had been there all afternoon.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I had to teach myself, obviously."

"Obviously," John nodded, watching Sherlock try once again to balance the slides on his cast. It was like watching the rehearsals of a circus troupe or something equally ridiculous. John finally took pity on him and approached the scene with caution. He took two slides in his hand and stood there, changing the samples when Sherlock told him to. John didn't understand why he couldn't just leave everything on the table.

Scratch that, John thought. He could. Sherlock had always worked at a maddening speed.

"I _hate_ this," Sherlock whined after John slid the wrong slide under the lens again.

John turned his head away so he could hide his smile. "I know," he said. "When are you due to take it off?"

Sherlock lifted his eyes from the microscope and stared at him blankly.

"What did your doctor say about it?" John asked again. It was strange to ask this, since _he_ should have been the doctor, but John shook off the feeling, telling himself that he would never let this happen again.

"I don't have a _doctor_ ,” Sherlock answered as if the very idea was a revelation. He stood up abruptly and started to go through the drawers like a hurricane.

John, though, had other preoccupations. "What do you mean you don't have a doctor? Are you mad? Who put this cast on you? And while we're at it, _why_?"

Sherlock opened and closed all the drawers in the kitchen, but didn't find what he was looking for – whatever the hell _that_ was. He turned to John and frowned as if it had completely escaped his attention for a split of second that John was still there. John raised one eyebrow waiting for Sherlock to remember that he had been asked a question.

"Mycroft," the detective answered, and turned away, walking to his bedroom. He opened and closed all the drawers there too.

John accompanied him, but stayed at the door. He let himself think about Mycroft putting Sherlock in a cast just to provoke him and snorted.

Sherlock started rummaging through a wooden box that he had taken from under his bed. John remembered that box; it was full of things other people would find useless.

"Sherlock," John said. It was more than clear now that he was avoiding the subject. " _Who_ is the doctor who put this cast on you?"

Sherlock groaned. "I _don't know_ , John. One of my brother's minions,” he said absently while moving the objects inside the box from one side to another. “He has doctors for minions too. It's incredible the things a minor position in the British Government can facilitate–”

"Sherlock," John interrupted firmly. He felt a familiar sense of dread curling at the pit of his stomach. "What the fuck happened? And what are you looking for, anyway? Can't this wait?"

"A-ha," Sherlock let out triumphantly. He turned hastily to the door and walked past John, out of his bedroom, and back to the kitchen in a split of second. John had no idea what the hell he had taken from the box.

When he finally followed Sherlock back to the kitchen, his jaw dropped. Apparently Sherlock had been looking for a small saw that looked more like a tool one would use at a slaughterhouse.

And he was deciding how to cut out _his own cast_ with it.

That wasn't happening in John's watch, not in a million years. Without thinking twice, he intercepted with his left hand, before Sherlock could start sawing.

" _Are_ you _mad_?" Sherlock yelled at him. "I could have cut your hand!" He said, staring at John's hand. It was ridiculous, it hadn't come even close to hurting him. John blamed it on Sherlock's usual dramatics.

"Put that down _right now_ ," John told him, staring hard back at Sherlock's vexed expression. "Now you will tell me what happened very slowly since you know I'm an idiot. And you will _leave_ _the cast alone_."

Sherlock huffed, indignant. He let go of the saw anyway. "I was knocked unconscious–”

John snorted. He had figured out that much, thanks. "I want to know _how_."

"Oh, _now_ you do?" Sherlock scowled. Trust him to say the wrong thing and still sound as if he had the right to say it.

And the truth was that John did feel guilty about that. He had the feeling he could have prevented this if he had really taken an interest in Sherlock's return before.

"John," Sherlock said, carefully-oh-so-carefully like he would have never done _before_.

John felt Sherlock's hand come on top of his. He hadn't even noticed he was still holding the cast.

He squeezed Sherlock's hand and let go of the cast, ignoring the tingling in his fingers. "What?" He asked, in lieu of something better to say and because Sherlock had never finished the sentence. Not that he would. He had the strange power of conveying the most complex things in the way he said John's ordinary name. It would always be a mystery to John how he did that.

"You couldn't have done anything," Sherlock said, and shrugged, as if him getting hurt weren't that serious. "I was knocked unconscious," he repeated, looking pointedly at John. "My _brother_ rescued me and I woke up in some secret medical facility or other, delighted by the morphine, but in this damn thing," he made a face at the cast as if it had been sticking its tongue right back at him.

John sighed deeply. He had to fight the urge to punch something. Having a matching cast wouldn't help them in any way. He didn't know exactly what to feel. Fury, yes. But also the terrible helplessness that he hated so much. He walked around the kitchen to give himself something to do. Without even noticing at first, he put the kettle on and washed two mugs.

When John turned back to him, Sherlock had a faint smile on his lips.

John cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. Sherlock was fucking mad, but John had to do the little he could to protect him – even from himself.

"I don't suppose you have your x-rays, do you?"

Sherlock's smile grew. "I do," he said simply. He hopped out of the kitchen and back quickly, holding an envelope.

John was flat out speechless. He suspected Sherlock had never kept a medical document of his own in his damn life. John used to keep all his medical files. He took the envelope and held it with his two hands, looking at Sherlock questioningly.

"I thought– Well, I _hoped_ , actually, that you might want to take a look," Sherlock said, making it sound like a question.

 _Oh_.

  
That was... _Thoughtful_.

In a certain way, John received it as a present. Maybe a license to take care of Sherlock again.

He forced himself out of the soppy feeling. Surprisingly, Sherlock was preparing the two mugs of tea himself, so John sat and opened the envelope.

He barely registered the sound of Sherlock letting his mug near him and walking around to sit in his chair. John put his hand inside the envelope and took the x-ray. He was surprised to see that there wasn't just one, but several test results in that envelope. He looked at Sherlock, but the other man had his eyes intent on the eyepiece.

“Have you opened these at all when you received them?”

“Hm?” Sherlock let out, clearly not registering anything. His mind had already wandered somewhere else. Somewhere with those damn things he was analysing.

John shushed the internal voice that was telling him he had no right to intrude upon his friend's medical files like this. Inside that envelope were years of blood tests, x-rays and other exams, and John had absolutely no idea why Sherlock would have had them done. MRI, x-rays of legs and chest and a dozen other test results from the time Sherlock had been away. John asked himself if Sherlock had any idea those were there.

On one hand, he was Sherlock Holmes, he was likely to know everything. On the other, he was Sherlock Holmes, the worst person at taking care of himself in the whole world. Mycroft had probably let those there.

John didn't know which one of the Holmes brothers was playing him, but he would take the bait anyway.

He returned the other results to the envelope, taking three x-rays of Sherlock's right hand and forearm. They weren't from the same time and John asked himself again _why the hell_ had Sherlock taken so many.

John stood up and went to the bathroom. He had the perfect excuse for it – he needed the artificial light to see the results properly. Well, he could have given the perfect excuse if Sherlock had been paying any attention to him, which he hadn't. John was glad for it.

He glanced over the most recent x-ray. John suspected Sherlock's hand was fine by now. He would never tell Sherlock, of course. He didn't want to encourage his butchery tendencies. John already suspected he had fractured his schaphoid. It was a relief to see that it had been a minor lesion. They could expect a full recovery – violin and all.

Sherlock had probably fallen on his hand.

_Running from someone?_

_Pushed by someone?_

_Knocked out by someone?_

John moved on to the results he was more interested in. He didn't know when Sherlock had taken the other x-rays, but he knew those bones well enough to know that they had been taken after... Well, _after_ . John held the first exam against the bathroom light for a moment and then read the doctor's report – not dated or signed. The doctor didn't write anything John couldn't see for himself. What called John's attention was what the doctor did _not_ write.

In a way, John and Sherlock were alike. When it came to his profession, John knew he was bloody good at it. He hadn't invented it, no. But he always tried to learn everything that was to know about the human body. He had been a trauma surgeon in a war zone. A random doctor could forget to mention – or be forced to do so – the striations on Sherlock's ulna and radius. But some signs would never go unnoticed to an army doctor.

When in service in Afghanistan, one got used to seeing those marks on other fellow soldiers' x-rays. Especially those who had been rescued from behind the enemy line, after enduring torture for weeks.

John swallowed hard and held his left hand in a fist. It wasn't shaking. It was itching. Itching to pull the trigger and shoot every last one of the people responsible for that.

John took a deep breath and willed himself to face the x-rays again.

Sherlock's marks weren't that deep. The striations imprinted on the bone didn't show weeks of abuse, but they sure as hell showed more than what John wanted to see.

John was suddenly aware that he was clutching the x-ray for dear life. He was still holding it up, but he stared blankly at the ceiling, deciding what to do. He could tell Sherlock, yell at him, beg him to talk about what had happened. But what good would that do? John was sure Sherlock wouldn't tell him the truth, and even if he did, John would feel caged by the impossibility of doing anything about it.

He wanted to kill Mycroft slowly because he was the only culprit John saw clearly. Maybe he hadn't been the one to put Sherlock in danger, but he hadn't taken Sherlock out of there fast enough.

John swallowed again down the bitterness that was threatening to climb up his throat. He set the results aside and washed his face, looking himself in the mirror and trying to calm down. He didn't want Sherlock to read everything on his face as soon as he stepped into the kitchen. He dried his face and breathed deeply, grabbing the results and going out of the bathroom.

 

Sherlock tried to drill holes in his skull with his green-grey eyes. John relaxed his features and told himself to get a grip. It wouldn't do them any good to spook Sherlock with a thousand questions now.

"So? How long do I still have?" Sherlock inquired. He sounded annoyed that it was taking John so long to tell him what he already knew.

Maybe Sherlock knew perfectly well what John had just seen. Maybe it had been his own idea to put all those medical files together.

John wanted to smile, but he knew his eyes were dead serious when he replied. "Very long."  


_As long as I can keep you alive._

  
Sherlock looked at him and his eyes lit up. John could not help now, he smiled back, his head swimming in an ocean of _gladness_ for Sherlock being there. John would never know what he had gone through to come back to London, but he appreciated _so fucking much_ him being there.

John curled his hands in fists and to stop himself from the sudden urge to take Sherlock's hands. He was being ridiculous.

Sherlock was looking back at him with a Sherlock-y mischief in his eyes. John knew that wanker well enough to know exactly what he was thinking.

" _No_ ," John said. He stood up and took the saw away from him. "Out of the question."

"But _John_ ," Sherlock scoffed. "This is slowing me down! I'm perfectly fine, you said it yourself."

“I didn't. I said you're going to live, which you are. But you're gonna keep the cast one more week.”

Sherlock was looking outraged. It made John want to giggle.

What a great pair of _lunatics_.

"And you will come to the surgery and I will take it off properly, with an _orthopedic_ saw. I'm not an orthopedist, but it'll be better than this," John said, pointing at the offending saw on the table. "Leatherface called and asked for his toy back, by the way,” he frowned at it.

Sherlock did a comical double take at him and then frowned. “ _Who_?”

John groaned. “Never mind. Then – _and only then_ – we'll take it out and take another x-ray to see if you can really be without it.”

"I'm not a child, you know," Sherlock argued, but it was half-hearted.

John mocked him. "Whatever gave you _that_ idea?"

Unexpectedly, Sherlock started to laugh. A rich laughter that seemed to have been bubbling inside him for a long time. John joined him without bothering to know exactly what were they laughing about. They were together at Baker Street among Sherlock's experiments and cups of tea. That was reason enough.

Sherlock's laughter died down slowly. "You could just cut it off now," he said, as if they hadn't just had this conversation.

John rolled his eyes. _Toddler_. "No."

"Oh for God's sake!"

"Watch it, or I'll just let you in it for another month.” And okay, maybe he did enjoy antagonizing Sherlock a bit too much. _Maybe_.

"Why do I even keep you around?" Sherlock feigned exasperation, already looking through the eyepiece of his microscope again. John could hear the smirk in his voice; it made something warm and fuzzy explode in his chest.

"Well, your tea is bloody awful," John said, honestly. He giggled at the face Sherlock was making and lifted his hands in a defensive gesture even though Sherlock wasn't looking at him. "Hey, I can teach you if you want."

Sherlock didn't look up. "What for? I have Mrs Hudson and you for that, don't I?"

The blind trust is his voice took John completely by surprise. Sherlock really had come back thinking his old life would be waiting for him. It seemed as if nothing had happened.

It made John feel hysterically happy, but also wrong all over at the same time. Things weren't the same, they would never be like that again. John had to deal with this aftermath every day. It seemed incredibly unfair that to Sherlock things would just feel the same. Not because John didn't want him to have it, but because he wanted to have it too.

Sherlock lifted his eyes. Glassy eyes looked at John searchingly.

And _hell_. He would take whatever scraps he could just to hear that amount of confidence in Sherlock's voice again and again.

He cleared his throat. "Yes," he smiled. "Yes, you do".

 

* * *

 

Mary arrived later that day bringing fresh samples of pastries for Sherlock's benefit.

He and John had already discussed the crime scene photos John had come for, at first, and Sherlock had even accepted to take a break to have another cup of tea – one made by John this time – and a slice of toast. He had showered and changed into his normal attire.

Currently he was back over his microscope, dead to the world, so John walked down the stairs to open the door for Mary.

He gave her a peck on the lips and hugged her tightly, sinking his head on her shoulder.

Mary made a content noise. “Good,” she said, apropos of nothing.

John made a noise expecting her to understand that it was a question. He was too comfortable to lift his head at that moment.

Mary disentangled herself from him and looked at him with a sunny smile. “I haven't seen you this happy for a while, love,” she said, caressing his cheek with her smooth hand. John leaned into the touch instinctively.

He made an agreeable noise, deciding not to deny it. It would have been useless anyway. He felt happier and lighter than he had in a long time.

“Oh, hullo, you two!” Mrs Hudson was coming out of her flat. She hugged Mary and John as if he hadn't seen them just the day before.

“You weren't home when I arrived,” John told her. He held Mary's hand.

“Oh, I was out doing the shopping. Are you still going to be here for a while?”

“Oh, yes,” Mary answered her. “I brought the samples I told you about.”

Mrs Hudson seemed delighted. “Oh, I'm going to put the kettle on. Who knows, maybe we can make Sherlock eat something.”

“I suspect he only had a toast today,” John said.

Mrs Hudson seemed impressed. “Well, that's more than the usual. You forced him to eat it, don't you?” Mrs Hudson asked, knowingly.

“A bit,” John shrugged.

“Perfect,” she said. She lowered her voice as if telling them a secret. “What was that terrible noise he was making earlier? By god, I thought he was trying to excavate the wall with a pickaxe!”

John giggled. “Close enough. He is getting sick of that cast, it's slowing him down, etc. You know how it goes.”

“Good god, the kitchen must be a mess.”

“I tried to tidy it up a bit, but it still looks like a war zone,” John concurred.

“ _I can hear you talking about me, you know!_ ” Sherlock shouted from up the stairs. _“I have very sensitive hearing!”_

John rolled his eyes, but smiled. “So, Mrs Hudson, we'll wait for you with the tea.”

“I'll help,” Mary volunteered herself. “We can put this on a tray,” she said, lifting the bag of pastries.

“Oh, John!” Mrs Hudson called him when he was already walking up the stairs. “I got Sherlock's mail today cause if I left it to him, he’d never pay a bill in his life. Can you take it upstairs?”

“Of course,” John said, waiting for her to get it.

After, he walked up the stairs perusing through the envelopes. He had done it so many times – to run up the seventeen steps while checking the mail – that it didn't even registered to him until he saw something that made his spine almost instantly freeze with a sudden arctic cold.

He stopped on the last step holding the manila envelope and breathing hard. He flipped it and sure enough, there was the red seal he was already waiting for. John leaned on the wall and squeezed his eyes shut.

 _Moriarty was dead_ , he repeated internally.

 _Dead_.

Sherlock had worked for years to dismantle his network. They were safe – most of all, _Sherlock was safe_. They didn't need to worry about that anymore.

“John?” Sherlock came out of the living room.

John knew he had to hide the envelope, but he still couldn't begin to move and Sherlock was already there.

He looked at John for about three seconds before yanking the mail for his hands. “This is private, do you know that?”

John wanted to yell right back at him that he was the last person on Earth who had any right of giving anyone a lecture about privacy. And John would, as soon as his lungs could work properly.

Sherlock stood right beside him, looking agitated. He thrusted all the envelopes in the pockets of trousers. John could see that he was looking for something to say – probably a credible lie to placate him. John would have squeezed the truth out of his throat if he could.

A million theories started to pop in his head. Maybe Moriarty wasn't dead, after all. Maybe he and Sherlock had become mates and exchanged clever letters. Maybe there was some sick fan's idea of tribute. Maybe they were old letters, maybe they were just envelopes without content.

Maybe they were reminders that Sherlock's efforts had been useless and that he was in danger again.

Maybe something was happening and of course, _of course_ , Sherlock was leaving John out of it.

“Could you stop?” Sherlock shook him out of it. “It's... nothing. They are nothing.”

Ah. _They_ . So there _were_ others.

John asked himself for how long had Sherlock been receiving them without telling him.

“Weeks,” he said, simply. He cleared his throat and looked at his own feet. “They are nothing, can you ignore that you saw this?”

John snorted, humourlessly. As if _that_ was going to happen. John wouldn't be able to forget anything Sherlock-related, _not ever_.

Sherlock was out of his side and in front of him in a heartbeat. He pinned John with his mercurial eyes.

John's heart hammered in his chest, too big and too heavy for its cavity. He could almost hear the blood running through his own veins.

Sherlock stared at him with pleading eyes. It was a ridiculous adjective, but John's brain couldn't come up with anything different.

“They really are nothing,” Sherlock said. John could feel the puff of his breaths faintly on the tip of his nose. He asked himself if that was really necessary.

“John,” Sherlock groaned. “ _Pay attention_ ,” he said.

John looked up from the expanse of Sherlock's neck to his eyes. He had absolutely no memory of letting his eyes wander like that. He braced himself on the wall, as if waiting to be attacked by a supernatural force.

“Trust me,” the detective said, so gently that his tone was at odds with his sharp figure.

John looked at his feet and tried to steady his breathing. He told himself to relax. Sherlock stayed in front of him, but gave him more space. He was still agitated, John could see his fingers twitching.

“Will you show me?” John asked when he could speak again. He already knew the answer. He knew Sherlock would have already shown him if he wanted to. He knew he would have already opened it if it was really nothing serious. He didn't need to look to know that Sherlock was shaking his head.

It was like being tricked all over again, like being shoved aside again. Like being useful for tea, but not for what he did best.

“ _Stop_ that,” Sherlock said, low and heartfelt. At least it seemed so. John hated not knowing.

They were side by side again. Sherlock had walked down one step, what left them almost at the same level.

Lanky bastard.

“I'm not tricking you,” the detective said. John continued to look ahead, because he didn't want to look at those eyes and notice that once again he didn't know if they were telling the truth.

“I am _not_ tricking you,” Sherlock insisted. “I'm asking you to _trust_ me. Isn't that what friends do?”

“Don't you fucking dare play this card with me,” John said, stepping away from the wall and turning fully to Sherlock. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he had absolutely no idea of what friends did, that he had been a selfish bastard for most of his life and he had no right to ask that.

He swallowed down the words and willed himself to watch his temper. It wouldn't do them any good either. He would shout, Sherlock would shout back and John would walk down the stairs and out of the building in seconds. He would be even more distant from the truth than he was now.

John looked hard at Sherlock and pointed at his chest firmly. He let his index finger brush slightly Sherlock's shirt right over his fully beating heart. “If _anything_ happens to you because you didn't count on me when you should have...,” he trailed off, his voice thick with everything he wasn't saying.

“It won't–”

“If _anything happens_... I will _kill_ you.”

 _It will kill me_.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"John couldn't stand it. Sherlock visibly had a case and John had absolutely no idea why he didn't simply grabbed his coat and scarf and barged out of the door._
> 
> _Alone._
> 
> _Oh._
> 
> _John fidgeted on the couch and nodded at what Mary was telling him about the buffet and the wine, trying to sound interested."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, AO3 is screwing up all my formatting, so sorry for that.
> 
> Thank you sooo much for all the kudos and lovely comments, for following me on tumblr and being supportive.  
> It means the world to me, and it caught me completely off guard.
> 
> Archie is being particularly helpful at this point, since I am very insecure and constantly need her advice. But she already knows I love her :D

When Mrs Hudson and Mary came in with the tea and a dozen scones, tarts, and minicakes, John and Sherlock were in the living room trying to act as if nothing had happened.

John couldn't stop the dread that threatened to take him whole. Something was happening, he wasn't stupid. And, again, Sherlock refused to let him know.

John was certainly the most pathetic human being on Earth.

He was on the sofa trying not to stare at Sherlock, who was sitting on the floor, reading something on his laptop. 

John started perusing the newspaper to give himself what to do. Without conscious  thought,  he and Sherlock  began to play the game of  _'What about this one?'_

“ _This murder in a hotel room?”_

“ _The husband, obviously. Look at her jewellery.”_

“ _The teenager found dead in a pool.”_

“ _Drugs.”_

John asked him about five different potential cases and Sherlock deduced one after another while still reading what was apparently his own draft about the decomposition of the human body when immersed in chicken soup. John made a note of not to ask him about  _that_ , at least not right before eating. Nor right after,  either .

Mrs Hudson finally arrived upstairs, bringing cups, plates and cutlery, not trusting Sherlock's hygiene when it came to housekeeping. John could relate. Mary sat right beside him holding a warm cup in her hands. Mrs Hudson  served  Sherlock  the tea . 

John schooled his features to stop the smile that always curved his lips while watching that. 

He had thought Mary had already chosen the cake to their wedding, but apparently not. Or maybe she knew that Sherlock would like to try out all those samples.

It was amazing to see Sherlock's eyes lit up by the prospect of  ingesting all that sugar.  Maybe that was his secret to be ing so full of energy all the time. 

John took a sip of his tea – which he had poured himself, thank you very much. They ate and drank in silence for some time. The other three were tasting the food and sighing happily at the tea. John was trying not to lose himself in the torrent of questions he had to ask Sherlock and couldn't.

He felt trapped in a warm and comfortable cocoon – delightful, but also bloody annoying. He felt helpless. Knowing Sherlock could be in danger gave John an adrenaline kick. He wanted to  _do_ something.

He wanted to be able to, at least. 

Sherlock was lining the pastries for some reason. John frowned at him.

“You should go with the strawberry jam filled one,” the detective said, picking the tart and taking a bite. He made a humming noise. “Definitely,” he nodded with his mouth full of sweet.

“I thought you preferred raspberry jam,” John said, pointing to the Manchester tart on the tray. 

Sherlock smiled, but it was so fast that John asked himself if he had really seen it at all. “Well,  _I_ do,” he said, picking the tart in question. “But  _you_ don't.”

Mary nodded in agreement. “True. The strawberry one is simpler, John is more likely to eat that one.”

“Hey, I'm right here, you know,” John said. Honestly, he didn't give a damn about the tarts. He had manilla envelopes and a stubborn friend to worry about. 

Sherlock stared at him, knowingly. 

John knew his thoughts must be transparent to Sherlock. The man knew everything, he sure knew what all that was doing to John. He was a prick for leaving his friend in the dark like that.

Sherlock cleared his throat and took his eyes out of John's. “He won't eat any of these at the reception, Mary, you should very well choose the ones you want.” 

John feigned indignation. It wasn't that hard. “Well, I'm gonna eat them all, just to prove you wrong.” 

Sherlock snorted and picked another pastry from the tray. “No, you won't,” he said. And it sounded so unbearably  _sure_ that John felt the childish desire to fast forward to the reception just to eat all the tarts he could. 

He felt the desire to rewind them until  _before Sherlock's fall_ and stop all  _that_ from happening. 

John could feel Sherlock's burning eyes trying to scorch him.

Mary took the samples of cake out of the little box they were in and arranged three different pieces in each of two plates. She handed one to Sherlock and one Mrs Hudson. 

John had to admit that Mrs Hudson was the expert and that Sherlock knew more about that than him. He gave up trying to shove that much sugar down his throat and leaned back on the sofa, pointedly not letting his eyes wander to the empty spot in front of the fireplace. 

It reminded him of not existing. Of not being there.

Mrs Hudson told Mary they should probably choose the first cake.

“No,” Sherlock said, still digging into the first sample. “Nuts,” he said, pointing as well as he could with his broken hand to the plate on the coffee table. “Nut allergies is too common of an issue to choose this one,” he said, not bothering to swallow the cake first. “And Harry is allergic to almond,” he drank his tea.

John raised his eyebrows at him.  _How could he possibly–_

Sherlock was rolling his eyes. John could see his thoughts in a comic balloon right over his head.  _'As if you could hide anything from me, John!'_

John felt embraced by Sherlock's obtrusive and obnoxious lack of sense of privacy. And then felt immediately embarrassed by it. He frowned looking down at his tea; it pained him. 

_Something could be happening right now._

_Sherlock could be in danger._

“So the plain vanilla one?” Mary asked, licking the frosting from her thumb and snapping John out of his thoughts. 

“Probably,” Sherlock shrugged. “People can choose which rich sweet flavoured thing they want to have,” he pointed at the options on the table.

“Okay, that makes a lot of sense,” Mary said, typing something on her phone. She kept amazingly organized plans about the wedding on her phone. It made John feel very glad, but also very inadequate. “See, I knew we didn't need to hire a party planner. Look at Sherlock saving us all that money,” Mary laughed, with her eyes still on her phone. “We can use it on our honeymoon, maybe we can travel for more than a month,” she said, sounding excited.

John tried to share her happiness, but he couldn't. He looked at Sherlock again. 

Sherlock didn't seem amused. His eyes were distant, as if his thoughts had taken him over. John tightened his grip on the cup. He wanted to shake Sherlock's shoulders and ask him if he was worried about something.

Slowly the detective came back to himself and they held each other's eyes again. It was like they were trying to win a staring contest to prove a point. 

It made John feel itchy to think about leaving London for more than a month. He had just started to rebuild this – whatever  _this_ was. He didn't want to leave it behind.

He wouldn't be able to do anything while he was away, he wouldn't able to protect Sherlock, to keep him  safe . 

To  _keep_ him  _alive_ .

John told himself that there were still months ahead of them before the wedding. He would get over his separation anxiety soon enough, he would learn to let go. Sherlock didn't want his help. He thought he didn't need it.

Just before slipping off John's face, Sherlock's eyes held a strange density in them. It made the itch worse.

Sherlock cleared his throat and left one unfinished minicake on his plate. 

“What about the tea?” Mrs Hudson asked, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Have you decided which one you will be serving?”

“Earl Grey,” John, Sherlock and Mary answered in unison. It was ridiculous. They laughed.

John knew it was his fault. He was a bit of a control freak when it came to tea. Mary could choose whatever strange flavoured tea she wanted, but John wouldn't give up on his tea. Not ever.

“Well, yes,” Mrs Hudson agreed. “I know our John is obsessed with it,” she said, raising her cup. “But you can always have other options.”

“I didn't even know people served tea at wedding receptions,” Mary laughed.

“Oh, they would if they were marrying him,” Sherlock said, simply. His eyes had drifted back to his laptop's screen.

And that sentence, said with so little care, made John a bit angry. He felt exposed and ridiculed. He hated when they talked about him as if he weren't there. 

“Well, that's a pleasure only _I_ am going to have,” Mary said, resting her head on John's shoulder. It startled him to notice how trapped in his own thoughts he had been. He smiled sideways at Mary and kissed her forehead, but it felt strange. 

Sherlock fidgeted where he sat and stood up abruptly, almost giving John a whiplash. He mumbled something about getting some water and walked to the kitchen. John didn't need to be the only consulting detective in the world to know he wouldn't come back any time soon. 

John asked himself if anyone else had noticed Sherlock's sudden change. Mary and Mrs Hudson were talking cheerfully beside him. He felt clogged in that damn place. 

Their couch had never been that crowded. It normally had only Sherlock sprawled over it, sulking or reading or just being Sherlock.

_Their_ couch...

John stood up too and excused himself, telling them he was going to the toilet.

He stepped into the kitchen to see what Sherlock was doing. He was sitting and had his elbows on the table. His fingers brushed his lips absently, in something that resembled his habitual thinking pose. 

John felt his irritation give into fondness for the figure in front of him. 

_To just think about losing that again..._

He entered Sherlock's line of sight and waited to be noticed. Sherlock focused his eyes on him and raised an eyebrow. 

“Okay?” John asked. It was stupid, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. 

Sherlock frowned minutely, but nodded. He stood up and went to get some water. John leaned on the door and thought about something to say.

“So, Harry will really show up at the wedding?”

Sherlock turned his head immediately. “I didn't say that.”

John hummed knowingly. He never thought Harry would really go. And it was hard to admit, but he felt a bit relieved. “Why can't we choose the mixed nuts cake then?”

Sherlock swallowed the remaining water in the glass. “You would never choose a cake she can't eat, John.”

John was looking at his own feet and smiled despite of himself after hearing this. He lifted his eyes and smiled at Sherlock. “I hadn't thought about that, actually.”

“Well, I did,” Sherlock shrugged. 

John's smile grew a bit. “Yes, you did. Thank you.”

“Also, she is a Watson,” Sherlock said, facing away from John. It was said so low that John doubted he was meant to hear it.

“What was that?” He asked.

Sherlock turned back to him and his expression showed that he'd rather not reply. John raised an eyebrow at him. “ _Watsons_ . They can always surprise us.” 

John just stared at the back of Sherlock's neck after he had hastily turned his back to him.

When facing John again, Sherlock was perfect collected. It made John question himself about why was he distressed in the first place. He smiled at John, but it didn't seem right. “Jasmine,” he said.

“What?” John asked, inelegantly.

“Jasmine, John,” he repeated, waiting for John to join him on his way back to the living room. John still didn't understand.

Sherlock sat on the floor again, but John remained standing. He smiled at Mary who smiled back at him.

“Mary,” Sherlock said, apropos of nothing. “What do you think about jasmine tea?”

 

* * *

 

Mrs Hudson, Mary, and Sherlock had been talking back and forth about the food that would be served at the reception and John had listened to less than half of it. Some of the dishes he couldn't even spell the names. He tried to stay tuned to what was being decided, but it was almost impossible.

He started to walk about the living room, peering out of the window and perusing Sherlock's bookshelf. It looked almost the same as before, with the exception of one volume or other. The right corner of his lips turned slightly up at the sight of the thick volume about bees that Sherlock kept for no apparent reason. 

To pace around that space brought so many heart-warming memories  that transported him to different points in time, when he had been so unbelievably  _happy_ that of course life had to find a way of ripping everything from him.

John let his eyes wander to the wall and smirked at the smiley face looking cheerfully back at him. He could see the bullet holes and every little mark of his life on those walls. He could remember the times he hadn't been able to sleep and had come downstairs to drink tea and stare uselessly at those flowers.

John used to think it was the most hideous wallpaper in England. 

Now he asked himself if maybe that wasn't the exact pattern of the walls in Sherlock's Mind Palace. The thought made John turn abruptly back to the window, and he told himself to stop feeling melancholic about not being part of those walls anymore.

He was there, at least.  _They_ were all there, for now. It had to be enough. 

His eyes started travelling on their own accord again, and landed on the violin case that sat sadly on Sherlock's desk. The detective used to say that dust was always eloquent. The case told a very plain story. It didn't have a single sign of dirt on it. 

It told the story of a man who missed one of the very few things that could turn his mind off and adjust his thoughts. Possibly the only thing that helped him think and was not illegal or poisonous. 

John missed the sound of that violin more than he cared to dwell on it. Consciously or not, Sherlock had poured himself in it, distilling feelings John doubted he even knew he was capable of feeling.

Irene Adler had been proof enough of that.

Sherlock had painted every little corner of 221B with the sound of it, unknowingly making everything feel like home for both of them. 

It must be excruciating for him to not be able to play because of his hand, John though with a pang in his heart.

He walked over to the desk and looked closely. He felt the urge to stroke the case with his fingers just to assure himself that it was real. And that Sherlock would be able to play it again very soon, if his x-rays could be trusted.

“Hello.”

John jumped at the sound of Mary's voice. He cursed himself for letting his mind wander like that again. He smiled at her.

“You seem a bit out of it,” she said, hugging him and caressing his cheeks with her smooth fingertips. “Tired of this wedding stuff, aren't you?”

“No,” John rushed on replying and winced. “Maybe a bit,” he admitted. He smiled at Mary and traced the line of her brows with his left index finger. “I trust your decisions on this.”

“And trust Sherlock to help me choose everything of _your_ liking,” Mary said, rising an eyebrow at John. 

He felt wrong-footed and didn't know what to say to that. They had been mates for some time, and Sherlock did have a particular way of knowing everything about everyone. 

And he seemed to know more about John's taste than John himself sometimes. 

Expect when it came to fake deaths and comfortable armchairs.

Mary smiled at him. “I trust him to do that , too.”

“Yes, well...” John sighed, looking anywhere but at Mary's eyes. “Sherlock and trust... Not a very good combination,” he said, and felt miserable for it. It gutted him in more ways than he could let himself show at that moment.

“None of _that_ ,” Mary reproached him. “He is the right person to help us with this,” she said, resting her head in John's shoulder. “He knows you better than anyone else.”

John hugged her and thanked god she couldn't see his face. He couldn't deny it. 

For some reason, there had been a part of him that wasn't available to anyone else, not even to himself.

The blipping sound of a text alert raised them both from the stupor they were in. They turned back to the sitting room and Sherlock was now looking at his phone and John knew that face well enough.

He waited for Sherlock to utter a word about the text, but it never came. He typed something and slipped the phone back into his pocket. 

Mary and John gathered on the couch again and John tried to listen to everything he was being told for the second time, but he couldn't help observing Sherlock with the corner of his eyes. The detective seemed jittery and John knew that quickly enough, he would stand up and walk around the living room to give himself something to do. It was like watching a movie John had helped to write.

Sherlock received another three and four texts, and had probably received some photos judging by the amount of silly squinting he was doing at his phone. Ten or twenty minutes had passed until he started to seem miserable.

John couldn't stand it. Sherlock visibly had a case and John had absolutely no idea why he didn't simply grabbed his coat and scarf and barged out of the door.

Alone.

_Oh_ .

John fidgeted on the couch and nodded at what Mary was telling him about the buffet and the wine, trying to sound interested. 

It had completely escaped his mind for the past  few minutes that Sherlock worked alone now , and that John and his fiancée were camped at the 221B living room, imposing themselves and their life on Sherlock. And Sherlock hadn't said a word about it. 

John tried to feel glad for it, but it didn't erase the mortification or the longing  to go along to the crime scene, ~~~~ to be there,  to know what the texts were about. 

“Here,” Sherlock said, out of the blue, thrusting his phone in John's hand. He had absolutely no idea when Sherlock had appeared beside him. 

John kept staring at Sherlock, holding the phone  like the paralysed imbecile he felt.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and lifted John's hand that was holding his phone. “Look”, he insisted. When John finally averted his eyes from Sherlock's face to the little screen, Sherlock said, almost as if pleading. “ _Tell_ me.”

It was improbable that John would know something about the corpse that Sherlock couldn't discover for himself, but he looked hungrily at the picture Greg had sent, trying to discern as much as he could since that would be the closest he would get to the investigation. 

“Fingers,” John said, looking at Sherlock. “He didn't drown, then?”

“Yes, he did,” Sherlock clarified. 

“He was choked and drowned in the _Thames_?” John asked, realising that he was the one squinting at the phone now. “Okay, someone really did want him dead,” he said, handing Sherlock his phone back.

“Yes!” Sherlock said. “Capital! Don't you think?”

John snorted. He didn't have it in him to remind Sherlock how inappropriate it was to celebrate someone's murder. 

Sherlock's phone rang and Sherlock picked up. “What? Don't you even think of that!”

John raised his eyebrows.

“Don't move the body, Lestrade,” he said arrogantly. Something on the other end of the line made him pause. “No...” he sighed dejectedly. “I am...” he cleared his throat awkwardly, “...busy at the moment.”

John couldn't believe his ears. It was so absurd that  it made him feel as if he had crossed to a different dimension. He had to do something. 

Without thinking too much, he stood up and walked to the door, picking Sherlock's coat and scarf. He walked back to Sherlock's personal space and pushed everything in his chest. “Get out of here, for heaven's sake.”

“What?” Sherlock asked him, astonished, while holding the items to his chest. The phone on his hand was completely forgotten. 

“Get the fuck on with it, we've intruded too much already,” John said, trying to sound cheerful, as a _normal_ mate would. He was supporting Sherlock, this was what mates did, right?

And that was what Sherlock wanted. To work alone.

It didn't matter John could feel in his bones that he should be walking down the stairs by his side. 

Sherlock's expression changed completely in a split second. His lips formed a grave line. He stuck the phone in his pocket. “No, you haven't.”

John rolled his eyes. “Look, I appreciate this, but it's your work, it's the  _most important_ thing for you, I know that,” he insisted. “Go  _on_ .”

Sherlock lifted his chin stubbornly, and looked down at John as if he knew a billion things John had no idea of – which he probably did. His eyes had the intensity of a moon. “I don't want to.”

“You _what_ now?” John asked, making an expansive gesture with his hands. He had absolutely no idea what the fuck Sherlock was on about, but he knew he was dying to hop into the first cab and see that fresh corpse for himself.

Mrs Hudson and Mary had been watching their bantering with amused, but apprehensive eyes.

“John will come along with you,” Mary said.

_What?_

John stared at her incredulously. He didn't need Mary to push it for him. That was pathetic.

Sherlock turned his head so quickly John could've sworn he had strained his neck. He kept staring at John with  _those_ eyes. 

“I don't want to intrude,” John said, stupidly. He knew it had been stupid the moment he said. 

He damn well wanted to intrude and make room for him again in that madness. He just couldn't say, it was too much.

Sherlock paced about the room putting his coat and his scarf on. He went to the kitchen looking for something and making so much noise that Mrs Hudson and Mary cringed at the cacophony of crashing glasses and banging metal. 

John had no idea what had happened, but he stood his ground. He would bid Sherlock goodbye and everything would be fine. 

Sherlock appeared again, holding his phone to his year. “Come on, John,” he said, grabbing John's shirt sleeve and dragging him out of the door. 

“What?” John asked, idiotically, following numbingly. 

He didn't even have his coat. 

The thought made him turn back. Mary was right there holding his coat and gloves to him. 

He really,  _really_ loved that woman.

She kissed his cheek. “Have fun,” she said.

“I–”

“Come on, John!” Sherlock shouted from the stairs.

John rolled his eyes and kissed Mary goodbye.

Running down the stairs he could hear Sherlock on the phone.

“Don't let any of your _people_ near my corpse, Lestrade. I'm bringing a competent doctor to assist,” he said, smirking at John.

Judging by Sherlock's groan, Lestrade had inquired him about his new assistant.

“How you managed to be called a detective is still a mystery to me,” Sherlock said, opening the door and already flagging a cab. “Doctor Watson, Lestrade, _of course_.”

And  _bloody sodding hell_ . 

It was about time. 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"John couldn't stop staring at the swirling coat and the floppy curls that bounced up and down. He had dreamed about this image more times than he was comfortable with. It hit close to home. It felt like being in the best dream; trapped in the worst nightmare."_

John crouched and leaned back on the wall, trying to catch his breath. It was hard with all the giggling he was trying to suppress. Sherlock was standing beside him, also leaning on the wall.

Sherlock had led them  to the warehouse they were in now, after deducing the dead man had been victim of his male partner. The dirt on a pair of boots in their house had told Sherlock where to find the murderer. They were now trying to capture him.

Or they  _would be_ if they hadn't been so busy amusing themselves running after him, in the first place.

John was sure Sherlock could have got to the man at least half an hour before, but he had preferred to play tricks on him, scaring him almost out of his mind in the darkness.

That was surely more than a bit not good, but John was too caught up in Sherlock's happiness to care at the moment. The man had killed his partner out of jealousy, so maybe he deserved a bit of suffering.

“ _Who the hell is that? Show yourself right now!_ ” The murderer shouted from the other side of warehouse.

John squeezed his mouth shut to stop himself from laughing again. As long as Sherlock remained safe, it was fun to feel his blood pumping with adrenaline.

He looked sideways at the tall man and tried to make his features in the dark. He was probably looking for something to throw against the opposite wall. They had been doing that for the past fifteen minutes, trying to get the suspect out of his hiding place. It was childish and ridiculous, but John couldn't run from the desire of  to be  part of it.

Sherlock threw a hubcap on the wall, and they heard the suspect curse loudly.

John knew that any time now the detective would get tired of the dog chase and would confront the guy with his straight face and acid tongue.

And John would be right there by his side to prevent any misadventure. He asked himself how mad of person he was for maybe  _wishing_ that something happened just to be useful again.

Sherlock thrusted something in John's hand.

Cold metal fitted perfectly inside his left palm, as if designed to him. John felt the familiar weight and  swore  he could taste the gun oil in his teeth. He frowned, forgetting for a moment that Sherlock couldn't see him in the dark. Well, he could probably deduce John was frowning. “Is that my–”

“Of course not,” Sherlock murmured back. John would bet money that he was rolling his eyes. “Do you think I went to your house and stole your gun?”

John smiled widely, thanking the darkness for the concealment. “I wouldn't doubt that.”

Sherlock snorted. John thought he could sense the other man's body vibrating next to him. Or maybe it was his own heart. He asked himself If Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice. John hoped he could.

“I didn't,” Sherlock said. He paused and John didn't know why. “I bought this one.”

John held the gun more tightly and caressed it with his thumb. Had Sherlock really thought about discarding John in such a way that he had to buy a gun for himself? The possibility felt even more cruel in a moment of such joy as that.

He felt Sherlock's hand tug his coat sleeve. “It was... _familiar_ ,” the tall man said, after some time.

John nodded numbly. It didn't matter that he couldn't see Sherlock's face, he thought he understood. Maybe Sherlock had bought that to try to recreate his home wherever he was. Just like when John caught himself uselessly buying the newspapers, and nicotine patches. 

“Marmalade,” John said. He had bought it for months after leaving Baker Street. He liked to have it in his cupboard, to pretend that Sherlock would pop in the kitchen and demand breakfast at any random day.

Well, he had almost done just that. John snorted at the memory. For a split of second he could actually laugh at it.

Sherlock had died and now he was right there, beside him.

If anyone would be able to do that, it would be Sherlock Holmes.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and his breathing sounded heavy to John. “Marmalade and British Browning.”

That nonsensical statement had a world of meaning in it.

“So, _Sherlock Holmes_ ,” John smiled – he could swear his cheeks were getting sore – “What's the plan?”

“The plan, _Doctor Watson_ ,” Sherlock mimicked him, “is _I_ jump in front of him and _you_ have my back,” he finished, and started to walk slowly to the other side of the warehouse.

_Typical Sherlock_ , John thought.

At least this time he had bloody warned John first. That was an improvement.

 

* * *

 

John had their suspect trapped under his left knee. Sherlock paced madly up and about waiting for Scotland Yard to arrive. The guy was fidgeting so much that John considered knocking him out just to give himself a break.

Sherlock groaned once more and mumbled something under his breath. Probably insulting all Lestrade's team and ancestry. John couldn't stop staring at the swirling coat and the floppy curls that bounced up and down. He had dreamed about this image more times than he was comfortable with. It hit close to home. It felt like being in the best dream; trapped in the worst nightmare. Like being haunted by something warm and fuzzy – John didn't even know if that made sense.

He smiled a small smile and turned his attention back to the guy on the floor. He manoeuvred him until he was sitting on the floor. Sherlock and John hadn't brought handcuffs, so John had to hold the suspect's hands behind his back.

“They are always like that at first,” the suspect said, apropos of nothing.

“What was that?” John asked. Sherlock had walked a bit far away, so John knew the man was talking to him.

“They trap us with their skin and easy talk, but then stomp all over us,” the man fidgeted.

“Stay still, mate, or I'll knock you out in a second,” John told him. His shoulder was complaining after what had been more exercise than John could remember doing in a long time.

“Hey, don't blame the messenger. You should listen to me. Stay away from him,” the suspect said, and motioned his head in Sherlock's direction. 

It suddenly hit John what the guy was talking about. He was torn between denying and laughing it off.

He snorted mechanically. “Yeah, whatever you say, mate. Just stop struggling,” John held him more tightly, just for the sake of it.

But the guy couldn't shut up. He wasn't talking to John anymore, he was just babbling to himself.

“Guys like us, they don't get guys like that. My Pete was like that, all sharp shapes and smooth skin. I should have known–”

It was making John highly uncomfortable. Apparently their suspect was developing a crush on Sherlock. And blaming his cheekbones for the fact that his former partner had cheated on him. It didn't make any sense.

“You are like me, I can tell,” the guy nodded to himself.

It reminded John of Sméagol and his endless mumbling. Well, they were in a dark place. Maybe he had a ring or something–

“Guys like that one destroy us. You should know that,” _Sméagol_ continue to talk.

John wanted to laugh at his face, but the guy seemed so distressed. John wasn't a cruel person.

And Sherlock had, in fact, almost destroyed him–

“Take everything and give nothing back.”

John could swear the guy had started tearing up and – by god – that might be the most awkward moment in his crime fighting life.

Sherlock walked back to them, holding his phone in his left hand. Sméagol stared at him like a dog stares at a juicy piece of meat. John wanted to kick him for it.

“Lestrade is near. _Finally_.”

At this moment, John's phone rang. The darkness and the general silence around them made the sound even more disruptive. John hated it. He told himself to forget it, but it didn't stop ringing and it was driving him up the wall.

He fidgeted , holding the suspect and mentally willing his phone to shut up. 

John didn't know  _how_ it happened, but the suspect managed to free himself from John's hold and was at Sherlock's neck in a second.

At least his phone stopped ringing.

John recovered quickly, but not before seeing Sherlock's astonished eyes.

“It's all your fault!” Sméagol shouted at the detective. Their faces weren't more than three inches apart.

John grabbed his arms and pulled him off Sherlock, telling him to be quiet and stop struggling. The guy kept shouting at Sherlock, who was gasping for air with a look of completely shock on his face.

John's phone rang again and he cursed under his breath. Without needing to be told, Sherlock walked over John and took the phone out his trouser pocket.

“Turn this damn thing off, for Christ's sake,” John said.

Sherlock looked uneasy; he clutched the ringing phone and cleared his throat. “Maybe you should get this.”

John thought Sherlock must be mad. “I don't know if you have noticed, but I am a bit busy at the moment!”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “It's Mary.”

_Oh._

Well, he  _was_ busy. And that ring was making him mad.

“I don't care, turn this bloody thing off, I can't even think with this guy babbling and this sodding phone ringing! I'll call her later!”

Sherlock lifted his chin stubbornly and answered the phone himself. “Hi, Mary. Yeah, he is here.”

John was sure his own expression was comical. He was flabbergasted. He shook his head at Sherlock. He was holding a murderer,  _for god's sake_ , he didn't want to talk on the phone right now.

“He's got his hands full with a criminal at the moment,” he heard Sherlock say and snorted despite of himself. The situation was getting more and more ridiculous by the seconds.

John grabbed the suspect's neck and took him as far from Sherlock he could.

“I will tell you just once, so hear me out,” John said, shaking the guy to mark his words. “If you get _anywhere_ near him again, I will knock you out. If you say _anything_ about him, I will break your nose. If you as much as _look_ his way, I will break your leg. _Got_ _it_?”

“Oh, mate, just listen to yourself! And you are the one playing him!”

John kneed his lower back. “ _Did. you_ .  _get. it_ ?”

The guy grunted, but nodded.

“Good, now shut the fuck up.”

 

* * *

“He discovered his partner's infidelity on the internet,” Sherlock was telling Lestrade. “Honestly, people nowadays can't even cover their own tracks anymore. Any idiot with a Facebook password can discover everything about anyone else's life. It's disgusting,” he said.

It wasn't lost  on  John how ironically it was  _Sherlock_ talking about privacy again.

Well, he was still concealing things from John, like manila envelopes and the cause of broken bones. He was very private when it suited him. When it was about leaving John out of his life, he was the King of Privacy.

John's eyes landed on Sméagol –  _Ian_ something or other, his brain provided uselessly. He was sitting in the back of Lestrade's car, looking intently at Sherlock. John placed his body in his line of sight and stared back angrily at the guy, who shrunk in his  seat , but didn't lower his eyes.

John couldn't stop thinking that the guy had thought he and Sherlock were... _t_ _ogether_ . He was used to it, of course, but why the hell everyone always thought they were boyfriends was unknown to John.

Sherlock had never denied  it . Sherlock Mr-I-have-an-answer-to-everything Holmes always left to John to clarify that they were just mates. It was as if the idea was so absurd to him that it didn't even show on his radar. And it was fine, of course. 

John focused his eyes on Ian again .  H e was still trying to get a look of Sherlock. It was a bit pitiful the way Sherlock's figure affected him,  and yet he still  couldn't stop looking.

John turned back to look at Sherlock. The detective was still talking to Lestrade, more quietly than he had been minutes before. His coat wavered around him, moved by the wind which kissed his figure , making his curls flap around in disarray.

He was an imposing figure, John supposed. Sharp but soft around the edges.

Or maybe sharp all over, John wouldn't know.

He felt his face getting hot and shook off those  types  of thoughts. Sméagol was probably getting to him. John looked at Ian again and sure enough, there he was, trying to swallow Sherlock with his predator eyes.

John clenched his jaw. It made him want to rip the guy's head off to know he was probably thinking about taking Sherlock and then killing him with his bare hands. John wished he would just get out of the car and  make  a move on Sherlock so John would have the perfect excuse to shoot him right there and get that over with. 

John closed his eyes and let the fatigue wash over him. It was probably affecting his mental stability.

He hadn't done that much exercise in a while. He was getting old.

He looked at Sherlock. Majestic Sherlock who looked exactly the same as two and a half years ago, young and beautiful.

Yes, well, beautiful. John supposed he was beautiful. He didn't know.

_Beauty is a concept based entirely on personal impressions_ , Sherlock would probably tell him. John snorted. Yeah, it was just like him to say something like that.

John doubted there was another person in the world who had stronger personal impressions about Sherlock than him.

John  smiled a bit  looking at his feet. How could his life be such an emotional roller coaster that now he felt like the luckiest son of a bitch on planet Earth was beyond him.

His phone started ringing again and the sound brought John out of his thoughts.

Sherlock appeared beside him. “Here,” he said, handing over John's phone that had stayed with him.

“Hi, Mary,” John said. His eyes had landed on Sherlock's neck and he asked himself if Ian had left any marks there. “I'm sorry, I was holding a murderer, I couldn't pick up the phone,” he answered.

John's fingers worked on their own accord. Sherlock seemed a bit surprised at first, but he stood still and let John take his scarf off and exam his throat. John noticed the taller man was averting his eyes. He tried to think about that, but Mary's voice was an insistent presence in his ear.

“Yes, Sherlock is a good answering machine,” he snorted and Sherlock scowled at him.

“ _Where are you? I was bloody worried, John! It's past 1 am!”_ Mary didn't sound angry, just worried.

John looked around a bit, realizing that, indeed, he had left Baker Street more than five hours ago. He had lost track of time. It wasn't unusual considering he was with Sherlock. “I hadn't noticed,” he said honestly, while turning Sherlock's neck so it could be backlit by the light coming from the police car.

The police car with  _Ian_ in it.

John was too tired to divide his attention between Mary's worry, Sherlock's neck and Ian's sickening smirking.

He closed his eyes a bit and took a deep breath. Mary was telling him that he had to work tomorrow.

“I know,” he answered. Honestly, he did know, he didn't need reminder. He would go home as soon as they were free to go. “I'll be home as soon as I can, okay?” He told her, trying to manoeuvre Sherlock as to hide his neck from Ian's line of sight. He held the phone with his shoulder.

“The light was better before,” Sherlock told him, uselessly.

John ignored him. He couldn't say 'Well, yes, but I don't want him drooling over your neck.' He didn't have any strength left to explain to Sherlock that their suspect had developed an obsession with him in the last hour.

John examined Sherlock's neck as well as he could in the dim light. “Does it hurt?” He asked, pressing his fingers lightly on it.

“ _Does what hurt?_ ” Mary asked, and she sounded amused.

Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders.

“Look, I have to go, okay? Sherlock got a bit choked and I have to exam him,” John said, a bit peeved, letting his hand fall along his body.

“ _Oh, okay, I'm sorry! Take care of him_ ,” she said.

They hung up and John noticed Sherlock was putting on his scarf again. He was ready to argue that he hadn't finished the examination, but one look at Ian and he was glad that Sherlock was almost entirely covered.

For the first time after the whole ordeal had happened, John looked attentively at Sherlock. The detective seemed a bit grim.

“You can take the cab,” Sherlock said, pointing to the street. Sure enough there was a cab pulling over.

“Are you producing cabs out of thin air now?” John asked him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I obviously called for this one, as you so very observant didn't notice. And I used your phone.”

John laughed. “All right. Let's go then. It can take you first and then leave me at mine.”

“No,” Sherlock said, sounding strained. “I'm going back to Scotland Yard.”

“Oh,” John let out, trying not to sound grumpy. He could just get in the cab and go home. “Why?”

“Lestrade has some information about another case we're working on,” he shrugged.

“It's 1 am,” John said, fruitlessly. Sherlock was a grown man, he didn't have a curfew for god's sake.

“I'm not sleepy,” the detective said, but he smirked.

John smiled back, but it  didn’t  come off naturally. He thought Sherlock would have an adrenaline crash soon enough and would need nourishment and sleep.

He then promptly chastised himself for thinking about Sherlock as a baby bird or something  just  as helpless. Sherlock was anything  _but_ helpless. He didn't need John to tell him any of that.

“Okay, so it can take you to Scotland Yard and leave me at mine,” John said. It didn't make any sense, he knew. There were three cars heading to the station, he could bloody well get in the cab and go home.

“Lestrade will give me a ride, you go,” Sherlock insisted.

_I don't want to_ , John thought.

That was the simple fact. He  _didn't want_ to leave Sherlock there. He looked at Ian again who didn't take  h is eyes off Sherlock for a second and made up his mind.

“So _we_ will take this cab and _we_ will go to Scotland Yard.”

Not in a billion years John would let Sherlock ride in the same car as Ian.

Sherlock looked like he could argue, so John raised an eyebrow at him, defying him to say something.

The detective squinted his eyes right back at John. 

Sherlock finally smiled at John. “Come on, then,” he said, walking to the cab.

 

* * *

To say it was strange to step out of the elevator and into Scotland Yard's corridors would have been an understatement.

The last time John had been there he had been clutching a bloodied coat for dear life  while  his head  had  pounded like grenades in the scalding desert. It was impossible to look at those walls and those people and not remember that day.

That day that was a blur, but at the same time had biting edges that gutted John constantly.

He took deep breaths and kept walking, closing his hands in fists and trying to soothe himself. They would be out of there soon enough, he repeated mentally.

Before they could go much further across the station, a known figure made John almost trip over his feet. He had mostly forgot that Sally Donovan still worked with Lestrade.

Honestly, he wished she had been shipped off to Siberia.

“Oh, hello, you two,” she said, with a taunting smile on her lips. John didn't think she was doing on purpose, she was just naturally hateful to him.

John gave her a short nod and wished her away. It was too much for him to deal with the Yard's building and with Sally at the same time. He was glad he was so tired that his body seemed too numb to have any radical reaction to the triggers.

Sherlock looked sideways to him, but didn't let out a word.

A few minutes after that, they were heading to Lestrade's office.

“It's good to have you back, John,” Lestrade said, sipping an apparently horrible cup of coffee, judging by the face he was making.

“Well, it's good to be back,” he replied, honestly. It was. Never mind the terrifying effect those walls had on his memory. Never mind that his body was exhausted.

Sherlock was there again, and John was there by his side.

It  _was_ good to be back.

“Yes, yes, everyone is happy,” Sherlock made a dismissive gesture. “Now, Lestrade. About that friend of ours...”

“Oh, yes. There isn't anything new about him. Another dead end, that one. About the last one, though, the one who left the new envelope–”

“Oh, I know all about _that_ ,” Sherlock interrupted him, and he sounded agitated.

John frowned. He had tried to pay attention to what Greg was saying, but the truth was that he was drained, barely capable of being awake.

_Envelope? Manila envelope?_ , he asked himself.

Greg was frowning at Sherlock too, squinting his eyes. John couldn't see Sherlock's face, since the detective had his back turned to him, facing the DI.

“What?” John asked.

Greg looked at him and smiled awkwardly. “Apparently we were all being idiots, John, and Sherlock already know s everything I could tell him.”

“Of course,” Sherlock turned to John. “Why did I ever dare to hope otherwise?”

“Let's hear it again, then,” John insisted. He didn't know what the hell was going on, and felt angry about his own body's limitations. He wanted to be wide awake. He thought vaguely that the next day would be fucking peachy, what with several cases of running noses and food poisoning.

“Oh, it's just this stalking case,” Greg said. “Celebrity stalking. She's been receiving some funny letters.”

John hummed. “Sounds interesting.”

“Oh, her family is a pain in the arse to work with, I'll tell you that,” Greg said. John heard Sherlock snort.

“ _Who_ is the celebrity?” John asked.

A loud, clear erotic moan echoed in the room.

Its sound waves hit the wall and crashed into John like an angry sea.

It was a sound John didn't think he would  hear  ever again. It suspended his brain and threw it against the walls of his skull.

Greg widened his eyes. “I know that sound,” he said.

John saw Sherlock turn to him immediately with a pained expression.

John could see everything in slow motion. He could hear Irene's song in his head; her  lying on Sherlock's bed without being invited there.

_Hadn't she been invited, though?_ John asked himself, uselessly.

He didn't need any explanation. He already knew Sherlock left much to be desired when it came to explanations.

John started to laugh. It sounded hysterical even in his own ears.

He was so  _stupid_ . He was bloody idiotic.

Mycroft had said as much. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool them about Irene's death.

John would bet his left hand that she had helped Sherlock too. Maybe they had founded that club, after all. It suddenly made sense why it had taken Sherlock  _two_ _years_ to come back.

Why had he bothered, really?  _That_ didn't make any sense.

John figured the talk with Greg was over, so he stretched his neck, still laughing, got his coat, and got out of that office before he passed out  from  shock and sleep deprivation. He knew he was having an adrenaline crash and that moan hadn't helped his body to adjust to any of it.

He could still hear it perfectly in his ears.

How many times had that sound invaded Sherlock's mind while John suffered thinking he was dead?

“John!” Sherlock walked fast after him, but tried to talk through his clenched teeth.

John smiled looking ahead at the grey wall. He hated those walls. He hated everything, really. He took a deep breath and kept smiling.

He was good at that, at smiling when he was angry.

“Yes?”

“That was her secret to tell, not mine,” Sherlock told him, infuriatingly calm, as was to be expected.

“Of course,” John snorted. “It doesn't matter, Sherlock, okay?” John pressed the button and willed the elevator to get the fuck on with it. “One more lie, what difference does it make?” He muttered.

“You were the one who lied to me about her!” Sherlock's voice reverberated on John's skull.

“Yes!” John shouted right back at him and cleared his throat, remembering he was at the fucking police station. He schooled his tone. “Because _that_ was the exact same thing you two did to all of us, _absolutely the same_. I left everybody suffering thinking I was dead because I'm a fucking liar, a selfish bastard who doesn't care about anyone else, exactly like you two.”

John couldn't tell when it  had become about Sherlock and John and not about Sherlock and Irene. It didn't matter.

Sherlock had a hurt expression. John loathed it. It made him want to punch him in the face again. He had absolutely no right of looking like that since he had been the one doing the leaving.

He and Irene were good at that. At  _leaving_ .

John was the pathetic kind of guy who stuck with whom he loved.

Maybe Irene and Sherlock were like that too. They probably loved each other, so they had stuck together.

All of a sudden it hit John how much sense that made. Maybe Sherlock and Irene were like Bonnie and Clyde or something.

The thought made John sick.

“John?”

“Look,” John said, forcing himself to turn fully to Sherlock. “It's alright,” he tried to smile.

“John–”

“It's your business, your life,” John said, pressing the button for the thousandth time. “Your _girlfriend_ , or whatever,” the word disgusted him and he asked himself why. It made him feel bad. Sherlock had the right to pursuit whomever the hell he wanted.

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock looked at him as if he was mad.

John himself felt like a mad person. He tried to quiet down. He breathed deeply and clenched and unclenched his hands.

He was so fucking tired. Physically and mentally. He just wanted to go home and sleep.  The torrent of unresolved emotional damage was still going to be there on the following day. John just wanted to rest for now.

The elevator finally arrived and John and Sherlock got in. The air was so thick with everything they weren't saying that John could swear he was being choked.

“You should go after her, if that's what you want,” John said. He had absolutely no idea what the hell he was doing. Sherlock should bloody well stay in London because that's where he belonged. “Or go _back_ to her, if that's where you've been all this time.”

Sherlock snorted; the sound made John's heart sink.

“You, John, are a complete idiot,” the detective said, and it sounded a bit angry. “I'll go wherever I want,” the tall man said, stubbornly.

“I know that!”

“No, you don't,” Sherlock looked at him intently. “Don't you see?” He asked, opening his arms widely, showing what was around him. “I'm exactly where I want!” He shouted, and the sound was so unexpected that it stroke John like a blow to the head.

Sherlock's breath seemed ragged and he leaned on the wall. His eyes never left John's. “And you are exactly where  _you_ want.” 

_Am I?_ , John asked himself staring back at Sherlock, but without really seeing him.

He didn't know. He stopped for a moment and realized he had absolutely no idea where the hell he wanted to be.

Or where the hell all that joy he  had  felt all night  had gone . That simple text alert had brought John  back  to his initial level of resentment.

The elevator arrived downstairs and the pair got out of the building. The silence embraced them in a heavy fog.

John hated that everything had gone sour.

“I'm sorry, all right? I'm still angry.”

“Really? I hadn't noticed,” Sherlock said, but he had a small smile on his lips. John thought it looked a bit sad.

He thought he deserved that much.

“It's fine, John,” Sherlock shrugged.

How far could he go until Sherlock turned his back on him permanently instead of being bullied all the time because of what he had done?

Both of them heard a car pull over in front of them.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but walked over to the window.

“Really, Mycroft, did you think we wouldn't notice you are not a cab?”

“No,” Mycroft said from inside the car. “John will take the cab behind, you will come with me.”

John waited for Sherlock's protests over being told what to do, but they never came. Something in Mycroft's tone or some brotherly secret made Sherlock turn to John and point to the cab that was, indeed, pulling over behind Mycroft's car.

“I'll see you tomorrow, then?” Sherlock asked, a bit awkwardly.

John had no memory of having arranged to meet Sherlock.

“Yes, see you tomorrow.”

He watched as Sherlock got inside the black car and disappeared into the London  night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kudos and lovely comments! I never thought so many people would join me. It's thrilling!
> 
> I am very, very sorry for posting this so late! I'm really terribly sorry.  
> I won't be posting next week either cause we're having this really long holiday here in Brazil and I'm going to travel to see some friends (yay me! cause I really need the rest, work is nearly killing me). Don't hate me.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr or pop there whenever you want to know about the updates! Check the #all and the lonely hearts tag there! (:


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: 
> 
>  
> 
> _"“It's like I'm eating for two,” she said, absent-mindedly._
> 
>  
> 
> _John froze in his spot, holding his pint mid air._
> 
>  
> 
> _No, she hadn't just..._
> 
>  
> 
> _That wasn't possible."_

John rested his sweaty head over Mary's naked breasts. He was still enjoying the aftershocks, feeling her ragged breath on his forehead and her pounding heart on his chest.

“I love you,” he heard her say and felt her kiss his hair line. It made something warm and fuzzy explode in his chest, as it always did.

He propped himself on his elbows and kissed her nose. “I love you, too.”

John disentangled their bodies and disposed of the condom. The effort of having to support his own body seemed too much at that moment, so he returned to his previous position, adjusting his head on Mary's breasts.

That was one of his favourite places in the whole world.

After a few minutes, sleep came crashing into him and he moved off of her, lying on his side, facing her. Mary had her eyes closed; her skin still had goosebumps on it. John traced her forearm, feeling them under his fingertips.

He liked that he was capable of doing that to her – loved it, really.

From the very beginning, John and Mary had been incredible partners in bed. Mary wasn't like those women who felt the need to fool their partners about their orgasm. Mary was determined and demanding. It had always made him want to _earn_ her pleasure. It made him feel like a bloody teenager sometimes.

He watched her slowly come back to herself and turn on her side to face him. Her eyes always had a special glow in them after sex.

“Hello,” he said, taking one of her hands and lacing their fingers. “Good?” He couldn't help but ask.

Mary smirked at him. “Oh, yes,” she answered, snuggling her pillow and tracing John's knuckles.

John unfolded one of their sheets and covered them both. They were too tired to even think about showering, and clothes were completely unnecessary. He turned off the lamp beside him and got closer to Mary, enfolding her with his right arm. Her hand came on top of his immediately.

“You were here today,” she said, and her voice had something almost liquid in it.

“I am always here,” he said, smiling, despite the fact that she couldn't see him in the dark.

“Sometimes you're not,” she countered. And even though John couldn't see her features, he could feel her puffs of breath on the tip of his nose.

“I'm quite sure I am always here,” he insisted, letting their quiet talk lull him to sleep. After a three days of crime fighting and a night of sex, his body didn't want anything other than rest.

Mary snorted and squeezed his hand.

At her silence, John frowned lightly. Did she mean anything by that? Was that really a complaint?

John couldn't help but feel a bit guilty. It wasn't personal, he supposed. He was just a bit out of it. _It_ being absolutely everything, since his head was really a mess and he couldn't stop worrying all the time.

“And there you went again,” Mary smiled. John could hear it in her voice.

He opened his eyes and sighed. “I'm sorry, love.”

“Is it something I can help with?”

John snorted. He sincerely doubted anyone would ever be able to help him. Therapists hadn't been able to, it was unfair to ask it of Mary.

Quite frankly, he didn't even know what he needed help with. Or if he needed help, in the first place.

“No,” he said, kissing her shoulder. “It's...nothing, really.”

It _was_ nothing.

He didn't know how he could possibly start this conversation. _My best friend came back from the dead, and I still can’t get over it?_ It just didn’t seem right.

“Let's have dinner tomorrow, just the two of us,” Mary said.

John smiled. “Are you asking me on a date, Miss Morstan?”

Mary laughed, low and intimate. “I _bloody_ am, Doctor Watson,” she whispered, kissing him fully on the mouth.

 

* * *

 

John straightened his tie, looking himself in the mirror of the restroom.

Mary had insisted they have dinner at the restaurant where John had proposed to her. Or the one where he _would_ have, if Sherlock had let him. John had found the idea as good as any other until he had arrived there and all those memories had assaulted him without asking permission.

It wasn't anything as violent as a panic attack, of course. It was just an eternal discomfort about the waiters and the scenario around him.

But Mary was so thrilled that John decided to ignore his own never ending drama for a night. She deserved it.

He came back to their table to find Mary perusing the menu.

“So, have you decided yet?” He asked, sipping the glass of water.

She looked at him with a comical expression on her face. “Honestly?” She asked, as if she had some secret to tell him.

John just raised an eyebrow at her.

“I want to have fish and chips,” she said, and it made John laugh out loud.

“Couldn't you have thought about that _before_ we got dressed up, love?” He asked between giggles. He was wearing a tie, for god's sake.

“I _know_ ,” she said, fidgeting with her earring, like she always did when embarrassed.

“Well, go on, then,” John said, getting ready to stand up.

“Oh, no, _no_ ,” Mary told him. He could tell she wanted to leave, but that she felt awfully guilty for having made them go there in the first place.

John was amused.

It hadn't been any effort, after all. One mention of the name Mycroft Holmes and he could get the chef's table, if he wanted to, and that was the truth.

He asked himself if he should feel bad about that. Sherlock would probably find it hilarious. John did, too, if he was honest.

All was good, then.

John decided to put them out of that misery. He rolled his eyes, feigning exasperation. “Let's _go_. I can't wait to have all that grease in my veins.”

That made Mary's eyes shine childishly. It was a good look on her.

“Come _on_ ,” he insisted.

They made their excuses to the waiter and left him a very good tip, considering he hadn't done more than bringing them the menu.

John and Mary walked down the street. He noticed they were doing the same itinerary they had done the day Sherlock had shown up in the middle of their dinner. He asked himself if Mary was aware of it.

She probably was.

They entered the first fish and chips shop they found.

The bell sound called attention to themselves, as if their clothes weren't enough to flash a light over their heads. John snorted thinking that they would be known as the fancy couple who attended all the fish and chips in the area.

Mary smiled at him and squeezed his hand. They ordered and found an empty table.

They had barely taken their seats and Mary was already digging into her food. She had an admirable appetite.

"God, I'm _starving_ ,” she said, wiping her mouth in a paper napkin.

“I can see that,” John laughed. The food was very good, so he could understand.

“It's like I'm eating for two,” she said, absent-mindedly.

John froze in his spot, holding his pint mid air.

 _No_ , she hadn't just...

That wasn't possible.

They used condoms. Every time.

“Oh, my god, your face,” Mary said, staring at him.

John cleared his throat and washed away the panic with a large gulp of beer. He couldn't help feeling guilty by his reaction.

“I'm not pregnant, John,” Mary reassured him, with a small smile on her lips.

They ate in silence after that. John cursed himself for letting it spoil the mood of their date that had been lovely until that.

 _What if she had been pregnant?_ The thought made John feel like his tie was strangling him.

He had never thought about having kids – had never been the fatherly type, for that matter. But it had never scared him as much as now, probably because he had never been engaged to someone before.

 _Should he have been delighted by the prospect of being a father?_ he asked himself while tracing the table cloth with his right index finger.

His already inexistent desire to be a father grew to general terror in those few seconds it had taken Mary to deny it. He could feel the aggressive 'No' glowing on his forehead, pumping out of his pores like shock waves.

It made him feel unbearably sad.

 _What if Mary were pregnant?_ How would she have felt after John had such uncaring reaction?

God, he was such a dick.

“I'm sorry,” he told her, taking one of her hand in his. “It caught me off guard,” he said, dumbly.

Yes, _that_ was understatement.

“We use condoms, John, in case you have forgot,” she said, taping his palm with her index finger. “You don't have to worry.”

John let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. “Yes, I know that,” he said. “That was a completely immature reaction, anyway, and I'm sorry.”

 _Immature_. That was the word, isn't it?

John was more than forty years old, he should bloody well be prepared for starting a family. And he was – he was getting married and all.

But a _child_...

That wasn't something one could decide at a chip shop, in the middle of a dinner date.

And there wasn't much to decide anyway. John knew his gut reaction had been a sincere one. He couldn't be a father now.

He had a stable career, it was true. He was getting married, he loved Mary, but he just couldn't...

He _didn't want to_. Not now, anyway.

Not in the next few years, at least.

He couldn't father a child and go chase criminals with Sherlock.

_Should that even be on his mind right now?_

“God, would it be so bad if I was?” Mary asked, and even though her voice had a sing song tone in it, John could see she was a bit disconcerted by John's sudden withdraw.

 _Yes_ , John thought immediately, and felt terrible for it.

“No,” he said, idiotically, sipping his pint to give himself some more time.

Mary wasn't stupid. His reaction had been clear enough.

“But it would be a bit sudden, wouldn't it? We never talked about that,” John said, carefully. He wasn't rejecting the idea completely. But they did have to talk about that if it was something Mary was thinking about.

She should have bloody _talked to him_ about it, in the first place.

John asked himself if it was strange that they were getting married and had never talked about having kids.

Or if it was stranger that he had never even thought about that.

 "Well, we're getting married,” she said, stubbornly.

 “Yes,” John concurred, entangling their fingers again. “But being parents is completely different, isn't it?” He asked, rhetorically.

 It _was_ completely different, for goodness' sake.

 “I suppose so,” she nodded, reluctantly.

John stood up and walked around the table, sitting himself beside her. He encircled her shoulders with his left arm. “We've got all the time in the world, love,” John said.

He had to say that, for his own sake.

What if he never wanted to be a father? What if his priorities never changed?

_What the hell was wrong with him?_

Wasn't he a bit old to be putting crime solving and blogging about it on the top of his priorities?

Mary smiled at him, and he noticed it was sincere. He let his eyes wander through her face, thinking how beautiful she was.

She would be a gorgeous mother, John thought. All glow and bad moods.

He felt a pang in his heart. He should feel tempted by that. He did not.

“It's okay, John, it really is. Baby Watson can take its time,” she said, kissing his cheek.

John giggled at that.

Baby Watson.

 _No_.

“Can you imagine _uncle Sherlock_ , what it will be like?” Mary asked, laughing out loud.

That thought gave John almost the same pause as the thought of being a father. His face made Mary laugh harder.

“He will definitely give our children small dead animals to dissect. Or their first chemist set,” she said, drying tears of mirth from her eyes. “My god, I don't think I will want him near them that much. Only if you clean after them yourself.”

John snorted. That was ridiculous.

_Sherlock around children._

He couldn't think about that. Sherlock would never be an uncle – the thought of Mycroft having kids gave John the creeps.

Well, what if John really wanted to have kids someday? Uncle Sherlock would have to get used to it.

 _Yeah_ , John thought. John's kids would blow up their bedroom and John would have Sherlock to blame for.

Good god, what if _Sherlock_ had kids?

John wasn't going there. _No way_. It was so ridiculous that made him giggle.

A blip of a text snapped him and Mary out of their subject.

**SIG Sauer or a Browning as a personal handgun, you would say? - SH**

John frowned at his phone. Sherlock knew bloody well he owned a Browning, and it was unlike him to ask stupid questions.

Mary tutted at the text. “Well, I'm going to the loo. Tell Sherlock hi for me,” she said, giving John a peck on the lips.

**For a retired army man. -SH**

Ah.

**How retired? Which nationally?**

**His father fought in WWII. He joined the army in the late 50s, retired in the 2001. English. Sussex. Royal Air Force. -SH**

**Walther. Is he a criminal?**

**Possibly. Probably. -SH**

**Walther PPK, maybe P99. Does he like guns?**

**Of course he does. -SH**

**Walther PPK-L.**

**As ever, John, you surprise me. -SH**

John shrugged. He knew that kind of soldier. Well, Sherlock had gathered almost all the facts under the sun in his head. It was just fair that John knew at least something that he didn't.

 **You're welcome** , he texted back, feeling pleased about it, nonetheless.

Mary returned to their table and sat, resting her head on John's shoulder. “What is he up to?”

John kissed her head. “Haven't the foggiest,” he answered sincerely.

He had probably broken into the home of some retired army colonel slash big underground criminal to investigate and was peeking through the guy's arsenal. With a broken hand.

 _Shit_.

He had probably done just that. John cursed himself for not paying attention to Sherlock's odd texts.

But how the hell was he supposed to know when the texts were odd? Considering Sherlock's average texting, those had been pretty normal.

John fidgeted in his seat.

Damn it.

 **What are you doing?** He typed.

“Don't worry,” Mary smiled at him. “He's probably fine.”

How could John be sure of that? He couldn't forget the manila envelope staring back at him defiantly. Sherlock could bloody well be in danger, for all John knew.

Just being alive was motive enough for Sherlock to be in danger – that was the truth.

“Is he ever?” He mumbled.

Mary patted his cheek and kissed him on the lips. He felt her warm fingertips on his neck and opened his mouth to give her a proper kiss. Mary sighed happily into his mouth.

John tried to concentrate in it, but his mind kept wandering here and there, conjecturing about what could be happening with Sherlock at that moment. He hated it.

He squeezed his eyes shut and kissed Mary more hungrily.

Mary broke the kiss, if a bit reluctantly. “We, Mister, aren't teenagers anymore to be snogging in a fish and chips,” she smiled at him.

John smiled back. He thought he had heard his phone blip, and lightened up the screen, full of hope of getting news from Sherlock.

His phone remained infuriatingly silent.

“Why are you so worried?” Mary asked him, somewhat annoyed. He supposed it made sense. He and Sherlock were bound to live dangerous lives, it was highly impractical that John would worry over the silliest texts. He just couldn't help it.

“Something is happening, Mary,” he told her. He didn't know what he could say. She wasn't familiar with all the Moriarty drama, she couldn't possibly understand how serious it was that he had found the same envelope that had led them to Richard Brook and Sherlock's death.

He didn't want to address that again.

“What do you mean? _What_ is happening?” Mary asked, worried.

“I don't know,” he admitted, rubbing his face. “He won't tell me. He never tells me,” and just talking about it made John agitated. “He might be in danger.”

“He is always in danger,” Mary told him.

 _Yes, and it makes me sick_ , he thought.

“This is different,” he said, shaking his head, dejectedly. “I think it is, at least. He won't tell me, so _it must be_ ,” John snorted bitterly.

Mary caressed his neck and shoulders. She looked at him as someone who knew exactly what John was talking about. She thought she knew, she had been there for some part of John's grief.

 _She had no idea_ , he kept thinking. Nobody had _any idea_ of what John had gone through.

Of what he _couldn't go through again_.

He told himself to get a grip. Sherlock should be fine.

“Why don't you call him?” Mary asked.

John looked at his phone. He didn't want to disturb Sherlock while he was on a case, it could end up making everything worse.

John shrugged. “It can give him away or disrupt his work.”

Mary rolled his eyes. “Then he won't answer, John. It as simple as that.”

 _Exactly,_ John thought. And then John wouldn't be able to sleep until Sherlock had given him any sign of being alive.

Pathetic.

His phone buzzed on the table. But it wasn't a text, it was a phone call. Sherlock was calling, which was never a good thing.

He looked at Mary apologetically, but she just smiled at him, encouraging him to pick it up.

“Where are you, are you okay?” John asked. He sounded like a mother hen.

“ _I'm fine, John,”_ Sherlock's voice poured into his ear like a refreshing ointment on an angry burn.

John squeezed his mouth shut to stop himself from showing how worried he had been.

“ _I know you were worried,”_ Sherlock said. Maybe there was a hint of a smile in his voice. John didn't know for sure.

“You were asking me about guns!” John told him. “I thought you were breaking into a private arsenal or something,” he replied, and felt his lips curve into a small smile.

“ _I'm_ home _,”_ Sherlock informed him. _“I would never break into an arsenal without you, that would be idiotic.”_

John smiled at that. It felt like a compliment there somewhere. “What about this case, then?”

“ _Ah,_ boring _. Cold case. Solved it this morning.”_

_Morning?_

A frankly ridiculous idea was starting to form in John's head. He looked at Mary and rolled his eyes to show her that Sherlock was being a prick.

“You were testing me, weren't you?” John asked, already knowing the answer by the laughter invading his ear.

Sherlock Holmes was definitely a _twat_.

“Well, how did I do?”

“ _Spot on, captain,”_ Sherlock told him in a quiet voice that reminded John of quiet nights at Baker Street with tea and violin. Sherlock cleared his throat. _“Walther PPK-L .22 with the year of his first big promotion imprinted on the barrel.”_

“Typical,” John snorted.

John noticed that Mary had stood up and was putting on her coat. She smiled at him and showed him her wallet, motioning that she had already paid.

“Look,” John said. “I have to go now.”

“ _Of course. Good night, John,”_ he said and his tone was still quiet, a soothing buzz in John's ear _._ _“Say hi to Mary.”_

“I will. See you tomorrow,” John said, without thinking. Would he?

“ _Indeed you will,”_ Sherlock said before hanging up.

_What?_

Okay, then.

“Well?” Mary asked, entangling her left arm on John's as they walked out of the fish and chips.

“He's peachy, as ever.”

Mary giggled.

When John felt the cold night air hit his cheeks, he felt happier than he had in a long time.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, you!  
> thank you all for the comments and for the kudos and for sticking with this fic.
> 
> I'm sorry for the (kind of) hiatus I fell into. I swear I'll try to keep weekly updates.
> 
> You should check my tumblr for this fic updates! there is an all and the lonely hearts tag.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Someone could be trying to slice Sherlock's aorta in two at that very moment and John didn't know how to fight them._
> 
>  
> 
>  __I hate you, _he thought, looking at Sherlock, blinking the tears away. It was ridiculous that an army doctor would lose control like that._
> 
>  
> 
> _That was what Sherlock reduced John into. A shaking mess."_

“ _Aren't you going to see him today?”_ Mary asked him, her voice travelling lazy through the phone. She was probably curled on the couch with a book, enjoying her day off.

“I don't have to see him every day, you know,” John countered, tidying up his desk.

Mary laughed. _“Oh, I know you don't. You do it because you want to,”_ she said, sounding amused. _“Where is he?”_

“I have no idea, love, probably trying to destroy Mrs Hudson's kitchen, or trying to catch a murderer, or to saw his cast off. He is Sherlock Holmes, he can do whatever he pleases.”

John looked at the calendar. It had been a week since he had seen Sherlock's x-rays.

Mary was telling him about a friend or other when Doralice knocked on the door. The old woman had a pained expression on her face.

“Your next patient is here, Doctor Watson. Can you see him now?”

John looked at his watch. It was still a quarter to five. “Can't he wait?” He asked her.

“ _What was that?”_ Mary asked.

Doralice's face turned a sickening shade of pale. “He is disrupting the waiting room,” she said, alarmed.

Before John could say anything else, he heard the familiar baritone.

“Ah, John,” Sherlock said, walking over to John and Doralice. Her expression was priceless.

John promptly chastised himself. Sherlock terrorizing his work place was _not_ funny.

“ _Is that_ Sherlock _?”_ Mary laughed. John had almost forgot she was still on the phone.

John tried to keep his face straight. “What are you doing here? I am _working,_ ” he said to the tall man approaching him. “Yes, it's him. Didn't you want to know what had he been up to? Well, apparently he was driving my waiting room insane,” he told Mary, frowning at Sherlock, who looked very pleased with himself.

John sighed, but the exasperation was mostly feigned. It still amazed him to see Sherlock pop in his everyday life. It provoked something warm that threatened to claw his insides out.

“I have to go, Mary,” John said, lowering his voice. He turned his back to the door and whispered. “Doralice seems like she will pass out at any moment,” he snorted. “Poor woman, Sherlock must have told her how one of her cats is dying after only looking at one of the hairs stuck on her jumper.”

“ _Oh my God,”_ Mary giggled. _“Does she even own a cat?”_

“Probably,” John chuckled. “Bye, love. See you later.”

John turned to his door and rolled his eyes. “I have a patient now, Sherlock. You can sit in the waiting room and _wait_. Stop driving everyone crazy.”

“Of course you have a patient. It's me,” Sherlock said, and his tone emphasized how big of an idiot he thought John was. No news there.

“I think I would remember seeing your name on my schedule,” John told him, flipping through the pages of his appointment book. “See?” He pointed to that day's page.

Sherlock groaned. “Yes, I see,” he said. “ _William Scott_ . That _is_ my name.”

“I'm pretty sure your name is Sherlock Holmes,” John frowned. “You've got a fan club and everything.”

John thought Sherlock would have a stroke by the amount of rolling his eyes were doing. It was endearing, to say the least.

“I am entitled to have middle names, too, am I not, John _Hamish_ Watson?” the detective asked, exasperated.

John gaped at Sherlock. He tried to recall all Sherlock's documents and medical files. He had never seen any one of those names.

"You can go home now. I'm his last patient,” Sherlock told Doralice, who was still there, looking at Sherlock as if he weren't from this world. John could hardly blame her.

Dora seemed very glad to get the hell out of there. Still, she looked at John to confirm.

“Yes, Dora, you can go. Thank you, I'll take care of the rest,” John said, mechanically, and turned to Sherlock again. “That's _my_ secretary,” he pointed out dumbly.

Sherlock looked horrified for a moment. “You can keep her, my secretary is _much_ better,” he said with a mischievousness that only he could sustain.

John decided not to ask about it.

“Take this off,” Sherlock said, almost rubbing his cast on John's face. “ _Off_ , now. I don't want this anymore.”

John raised one eyebrow. “I'm the one who will decide–”

“ _Cut. It. Off_. Or I'll do it myself,” he countered, defiantly.

 _Good God_ , John thought.

Sometimes not even he could understand how much he had missed _this_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John held the new x-ray against the light. Sherlock's hand was fine, as he had suspected. The other marks had also faded into memories. Probably painful memories to Sherlock – not that John would know.

He held Sherlock's eyes and savoured that rare moment in which he had the control of the room. It wasn't a common feeling when with Sherlock. John always felt like he was a small boat drifting in the ocean.

“I know it's all right, John, you can stop pretending now,” the other man told him, amused.

 _Prick_.

John motioned Sherlock to follow him through the corridor. The surgery was mostly empty and John suspected Sherlock had something to do with that.

“What have you done with my other patients?” He asked Sherlock, while unlocking the orthopaedist's office. It was Bill's day off, but John had already warned him about having to take a friend's cast off. Bill was _a fan of Sherlock Holmes_ , so he hadn't asked many questions.

“Oh, both discovered their respective spouses were cheating on them. Very dreadful business,” the detective said dismissively, perusing the bookshelves and Bill's desk. John asked him not to tell any sordid details of his colleague’s life.

Bill seemed like a nice fellow, John wanted to keep it that way. No one could survive Sherlock's scrutiny.

The detective just shrugged.

While John plugged the saw, Sherlock took off his gloves, scarf, and coat. He hung them pristinely on the back of a chair. It surprised John again and again how methodical Sherlock could be with his clothes. Sherlock, who lived among chaos and science debris.

John helped him to fold his shirt sleeve above his elbow. Sherlock seemed unhappy about tousling his clothing.

John rolled his eyes. “You can take your poncy shirt off too, you know. This way I don't have to hear you complaining about the white powder on your _black_ shirt. Couldn't you have worn a white one, by the way?”

Sherlock went tense on the shoulders and his lips formed a rigid line. “There's no need. Just try not to make a mess out of it.”

John looked at Sherlock intently.

That man had never been modest about being shirtless anywhere. He had gone to the bloody Palace wearing nothing but a sheet. That scene in front of John didn't seem right.

“Take your shirt off,” John said, resting the saw on the hospital bed and crossing his arms over is chest.

“No,” Sherlock answered and mirrored John's position.

“Okay, then you will keep the cast on,” John said. That crazy bastard was hiding something from him and John felt his spine growing cold with fear.

“That is ridiculous,” Sherlock said. His face showed some outrage, but John thought that deep in his eyes there was something else. Something broken and vulnerable.

Or maybe he was seeing himself reflected in those glassy eyes.

“Well, that is how it's going to be,” John insisted.

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his face with his left hand. “God, I can't even rub my face properly!”

“Yes, you are losing in the dramatics there, mate,” John mocked him.

“You can't do this. You took an oath.”

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was the very antagonizer of the Hippocratic Oath.

The silence engulfed them both.

John suspected his eyes had become softer and softer by the seconds. Maybe Sherlock could see they were pleading. John _had_ to see what Sherlock was clearly going out of his way to hide.

Very slowly, Sherlock started to take his shirt off. John would have laughed of how uncoordinated he seemed unfastening the buttons one-handed, but that image tugged something in John's chest. He thought about Sherlock alone in Baker Street doing everything by halves.

221B _was_ half-empty, John remembered. Everything was strangely connected in his head.

It hit John how odd that scene could seem if someone opened the door. Sherlock was undressing himself and John was there, just staring at him.

But what would probably look erotic to an outsider was a bubble of dread growing around them, threatening to burst at the slightest move.

After unbuttoning his cuffs, Sherlock finally took the shirt off and looked at John, who was analysing Sherlock's torso with military acuity. John remembered every mole and freckle, every old scar Sherlock endured. He remembered the one he'd got after being jabbed with a broken bottle by a particularly nasty suspect, and the one after getting his arm cut on an old iron gate in Leeds when the two of them had been investigating a forgery case.

In some ways, Sherlock's body was like the 221b's walls. He had some of their story written on his skin.

John had everything in his hypodermis, in his blood. He had everything so deep that things drowned him more frequently than not.

The detective cleared his throat awkwardly. “Happy?”

John let the corner of his mouth turn up to show that he was listening, but the truth was that he _was_ happy. Sherlock's torso seemed the same as before. A minor scratch here and there were much better than what he was expecting.

He took a step, intending to walk around the bed to exam Sherlock's back. He felt a hand wrap his wrist.

“John.”

Sherlock's voice sounded rough. As if he had been holding so much in his throat that the effort of not letting it out was choking him.

“It will only make you angrier,” he said, holding John's wrist more firmly.

John smiled sadly back at him. “You know I can't _not_ do this, don't you? Just... let it go,” he answered, squeezing Sherlock's hand and freeing himself from it.

John placed himself stubbornly at the other side of the bed. He took a deep breath and finally looked at Sherlock's back.

And almost forgot how to breathe.

A dozen slots and scars adorned his scapula and lower back.

The angry marks over Sherlock's left kidney pushed the air out of John's nasal airways.

“Shit.”

He placed his hand over that particular point. Those weren't simple scratches.

Sherlock had been stabbed. Over and over again. Someone could have pierced his aorta. He could have died, really died, and John have been ignorant of it.

He traced his fingers over the marks. They hadn't healed neatly. Sherlock had probably had an infection.

“ _Shit_.”

It made him want to bang his head on the wall. It made him want to do anything that could knock himself out of it.

“John!” Sherlock turned to him and held his hand forcibly.

John's chest cavity threatened to explode out of his body. He flattened his hands on the hospital bed and breathed, trying to soothe himself.He could feel his eyes filling with involuntary tears. His nostrils were invaded by the acrid smell of the morgue, and if maybe it had a faint trace of chlorine, John wasn't pointing that out.

He lifted his chin and looked at Sherlock's eyes. They had a desperate tone in them, a kind of urgency that John knew well enough.

“It's all right,” Sherlock said, awkwardly.

John snorted, swallowing down the bitterness that was fighting its way up on his throat.

Things were so _not right_ that John could not wish to begin putting them back together. That was the whole problem. The past was always coming back to haunt him.

It haunted him every time he looked at Sherlock and remembered that something was happening and John didn't know what. Sherlock had lied to him about being dead, then had lied to him about his injuries.

Now he was lying to John about mysterious envelopes.

Someone could be trying to slice Sherlock's aorta in two at that very moment and John didn't know how to fight them.

 _I hate you_ , he thought, looking at Sherlock, blinking the tears away. It was ridiculous that an army doctor would lose control like that.

That was what Sherlock reduced John into. A shaking mess.

He hated that he couldn't just trap Sherlock in a cage. Or take the wounds in his place, or do anything to keep him safe.

It was bloody unfair that John felt responsible for the most irresponsible being on the planet.

“John,” Sherlock insisted. “I told you you would be upset.”

 _Fucking genius_. How very observant of him.

“I told you it would only make you angrier,” Sherlock said, simply. He turned his back to John again. “Don't you think you already have reasons enough to hate me?” He mumbled.

If John were able to speak, he would have been speechless by that.

He looked at Sherlock's back again. Shiningly pale region of skin that now looked like a map. Maybe a map of the path Sherlock had to take to get back to London.

John didn't know. He didn't know if he wanted to, anymore.

And why was _Sherlock_ whom he hated for those scars? Sherlock, the one who had suffered them in the first place. He didn't deserve to be blamed for it.

John wanted to tell him that. To say he was sorry for the thousandth time that week. But what good would it do? He was tired of falling back on that miserable dance they seemed unable to stop doing around each other.

He let his fingers trace the area once more, telling himself he was examining it more thoroughly. He wanted to look _inside_ that body, to make sure Sherlock had healed, that the infection had been dealt with.

What he _really_ wanted to do was to rest his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder and breathe him in.

And that thought hit him like a blunt blow. Like being tossed in space and being embraced by the void.

What the fuck was happening to him, he didn't know. He was going insane.

John walked to the small sink and washed his hands, without saying a word. He frankly had no idea of what to say.

After drying his hands and forearms, he put on the latex gloves and set to work.

Maybe other people would feel unsure about having a doctor who had almost collapsed minutes earlier taking their cast off, but Sherlock wasn't other people. He looked at John with the same expression he always had when John took care of him. Like he was the only doctor in the world.

Or maybe he knew John's hand never shook when his health was at stake. Maybe he knew John's body never failed him when there was still the possibility of _taking care_ of him.

John turned on the orthopaedic saw and focused his mind on getting Sherlock out of his cast. They had had reminders enough of all the physical pain that man had endured. John couldn't wait to get rid of it.

He worked with surgical precision, and the noise of metal piercing cast was all that could be heard in the room.

When finished, John washed Sherlock's hand and forearm, examining them. Sherlock had lost some of his strength, what was perfectly normal in those cases.

John took a rubber ball out of one of the Bill's drawers and handed it to Sherlock, who squeezed it tentatively, at first.

“So, how do you feel?” John asked. He had been quiet for so long that his voice seemed aggressive in the quiet room.

“Free,” the other man smiled, squeezing the ball with more force than was necessary.

John held his hand to stop the movement, but refused to acknowledge the tingling in his fingers. “Well, you are not. Start _slowly_.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but stopped squeezing the rubber ball. He walked over to the chair he had hung his clothes on and started dressing himself while John cleaned the bed and tried to place everything in order.

“So,” he started, awkwardly. “ _William Scott_...?” He turned to Sherlock and raised an eyebrow at him.

Sherlock snorted. “Yes, well, what can I do?”

“It fits you perfectly,” John said, taking off the covers of the bed and putting them on the proper bin.

“Does it?” Sherlock asked, and John didn't need to look at him to see he was interested.

“Yes,” John nodded, “Silly and unnecessarily pompous,” he smirked.

Sherlock chuckled. “That's because you don't know _Mycroft's_ name.”

John gaped at him.

Sherlock finished fastening his scarf around his neck. “I could tell you, but then he would kill you.”

John laughed out loud at this. “I totally believe he would.”

 

 

* * *

 

Mycroft seemed to have heard them talk about him, because when John and Sherlock stepped out of the cab, he was right there at 221B.

At least, that was what Sherlock told John, even before they had got out of the cab.

They walked up the stairs and John could feel Sherlock's annoyance pouring out of him like heat waves. Mycroft had always made Sherlock upset, but this seemed a bit too much.

“Are you okay?” John asked him, uselessly. Sherlock wouldn't tell him the opposite.

The detective nodded and opened the door.

Sure enough, there was Mycroft, sitting on Sherlock's chair, in all his umbrella-y glory. He looked at John as if he already knew he would be there.

He didn't know why he felt like he had been caught doing something he should be ashamed of. He felt the irrational fear that Mycroft would be able to see in his eyes that he had wished to cuddle Sherlock earlier.

It was ridiculous, for Christ's sake. Mycroft still hadn't installed the CCTV in John's brain.

Well, at least he didn't think so.

The brothers seemed even tenser than John remembered, and he noticed that Sherlock wasn't the only one looking more agitated than usual.

Mycroft Holmes looking agitated. That was quite unusual.

John promptly asked them about tea and decided to retreat to the kitchen.

“Theremight be a head in the fridge,” Sherlock said, hanging his coat.

John frowned. “There _might_ be...? You mean you _don't know_?” He asked, smiling. It was impossible not to. That was the kind of conversation one was bound to have at Baker Street.

“Molly said she was going to bring it over today, but I don't know if she did,” Sherlock told him.

“Or maybe she did come, and Mrs Hudson wasn't home,” Mycroft said, matter-of-factly, which hit John as _very_ strange.

“Yes,” John said, unsure. “Or that,” he finished and it sounded like a question.

_What was Mycroft implying?_

John looked at Sherlock for support. Was he being insulted? Because he felt insulted and he had absolutely no idea why.

Sherlock seemed uncomfortable.

 _Ah_ , so that _was_ something.

John hated that. Being around Sherlock and Mycroft was like swimming in waters filled with jellyfish.

Mycroft stood up and placed a chair for himself in front of Sherlock's armchair.

“Well, aren't you going to tell him?” Mycroft asked Sherlock, sounding as obnoxious as ever. It made John's skin crawl.

Sherlock looked angrily at Mycroft and rolled his eyes. “Molly's got a key,” he said, simply, without taking his eyes out of Mycroft.

“Yes, she does,” Mycroft nodded and turned back on the chair to look at John. “So be aware of the head in the fridge, Doctor Watson,” he said, turning back to Sherlock. “And of the elephant in the room.”

John looked at Sherlock again and the detective seemed so distressed that John gave up asking for any explanation about that.

Rolling his eyes at the Holmes typical nonsense, he stepped into the kitchen and closed the door to give the brothers some privacy.

He knew he would never hear anything they did not want him to.

John decided he could bloody well make tea, since he didn't have anything better to do. He put the kettle on and looked around the kitchen, smiling a small, private smile.

He loved that place.

He would never say that out loud, but he loved it. It was probably the room he liked most there. Weirdly enough, it was the room Sherlock felt more at peace in, consequently being the room in which _John_ had always felt more at peace. There, Sherlock was thinking about science and order, not bored or thinking about shooting up some cocaine to give himself something to do.

John looked at the chairs around the table.

Molly had a key to Sherlock's flat. That was... _new_.

Yes, new. _New_ was a good word for it.

John tried to shut up the inner voice that keep telling him that _that_ was how things were now. That never mind how hard they tried, things were just different. There were different people.

Those two chairs around the kitchen's table... Knowing as he did now that Molly had her own key to the flat, it seemed obvious that the other chair was hers. It seemed appropriate somehow, they were both scientists.

He asked himself what else Molly had in there.

Or Irene Adler, for that matter. Maybe she'd got a key too – she was alive, after all.

John sighed.

It was just still hard to think about 221B as _Sherlock's_ flat.

John still had to adjust to the fact that it wasn't his home anymore. In fact, it was almost as if he had never lived there.

The truth was that every time he came around the flat, that empty spot in front of the fireplace killed him a bit more.

He was getting used to it again, getting to know its every corner and speck of dust again. He was falling in love again with a place that he didn't have the right to love now.

The kettle had just boiled when the sound of rising voices coming from the living room called John's attention. He could almost make up what they were talking about.

“ _... him out of it,”_ Sherlock maybe said.

Mycroft said something John couldn't understand.

“ _That is not up to discussion!”_ Sherlock shouted, and John didn't even need to concentrate to hear it.

It was impossible for John not to feel interested. He wanted to know who ' _him'_ was.

John stared at the door, connecting the dots in his head.

He wasn't as stupid as Sherlock liked to think. The only _him_ John knew who was capable of making Sherlock lose his temper like that was John himself. He knew that much.

The urge to eavesdrop was maddening. John was growing more and more certain that they were talking about him. And he wasn't a kid to be left in the corner until people decided what to do with him.

He tried to slow down his breathing and stop all the other noises in the kitchen. He stopped making tea, and cursed the bloody fridge for being so loud.

That was just ridiculous. He was an army captain, there was no way in hell he was going to stay there and wait for them to decide what to do about him.

He squared his shoulders and cracked his neck. In a way, it was like being in a battle. He had a Holmes to face, and he had no idea which.

He opened the door loudly and walked over to the couch, with a smile on his lips.

He sat and stared at the brothers defiantly. “You two still think I am completely stupid just because I am not like you, don't you?”

Mycroft looked at him, interested. Sherlock was looking for a lie to placate John.

“You,” John said, pointing at Sherlock, “Are full of shit.”

Sherlock looked at him as if he had been caught.

“Yeah, I can tell you are trying to fool me right now,” John shook his head, but the smile never left his lips. “Aren't you two tired of lying _T_ _o.My.Face_?”

“Indeed, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft unexpectedly replied. “I am,” he said, but his eyes didn't leave Sherlock's.

“This is what you want, isn't it?” Sherlock asked Mycroft, pouring all his anger in his words. “Did you think I wouldn't notice your pathetic scheme to let him know about what happened?”

John could see Sherlock's fingers flexing over the leather of his armchair. They were turning white. He looked like a glass statue vibrating, ready to shatter.

“Did you think I wouldn't notice several test results in one envelope, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

_Ah._

That explained so much.

John looked at Mycroft again. He had no idea of what Mycroft was playing at.

It _was_ suspicious.

Mycroft was laughing. What an obnoxious sound.

“Oh, dear brother. I was perfectly aware that you would notice,” he tapped his umbrella on the floor. “What I wanted to know was if you would let him see them anyway.”

“And he did,” John said, just so they didn't forget he was still there. Also, because Sherlock didn't look like he was going to say anything. He seemed paler than before and he had set his lips in a hard, thin line.

“Yes, you did,” Mycroft asserted. He looked at Sherlock as if that had more meaning than what John was grasping.

He didn't care.

“You will tell me what's happening right now, and stop bloody lying to me!” John said, angrily. “It's about those envelopes, isn't it?”

“They aren't just envelopes, Doctor Watson. They are _death threats_. Ten of them,” Mycroft replied, still looking at Sherlock.

“They are _nothing_ ,” Sherlock insisted.

“Death threats? And you weren't going to _tell_ me?” John stood up and walked over to Sherlock. “Are you fucking _insane_?”

“There's no need to drag you into this!” Sherlock stood up too.

Of course he would have preferred to be taller to have this conversation. If only he could choose such a thing.

“ _Drag me_?” John echoed.

He couldn't believe his ears. He was so fucking caught up in all this, he couldn't believe Sherlock still thought it possible to leave John at bay. That Sherlock still _preferred_ it, actually.

“When you decide to stop shouting at each other, we can decide what to do,” Mycroft interjected, sounding bored. It made John want to punch him.

“Oh, Mycroft, don't push it. Or I will kick the shit out of you right here in this living room. And you know I bloody well could if I wanted to.”

This made Sherlock snort, as John thought it would. Mycroft just rolled his eyes.

John walked back to the couch and sat again. “You are going to tell me what's happening. Or I'll have to call Mycroft for the details. Or _Lestrade_.”

At Sherlock's vexed expression, John smiled, bitterly. “You really do think I'm stupid, don't you?”

Sherlock had assembled everyone to help him, but not him.

Of course not him, _never him_. Never John.

Sherlock's face had softened, but he still wasn't convinced. “The less you know, the better, John. You wouldn't be able to do anything.”

“And who, pray tell, can help? _Irene Adler_?” Mycroft asked, disgusted.

“Oh, so Irene knows too?” John smiled angrily. “Bloody brilliant, Sherlock. Is she in London?”

“No,” Sherlock replied.

“Pity. You could invite her for tea,” John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “She knows people–”

“ _Or knows what they like_ ,” John interjected.

“Oh, lord, this is tiresome,” Mycroft said, looking at his watch.

“I want to see the letters,” John said.

“No,” Sherlock said, simply. His face was hard and left no room for argument.

John would never have thought he would do it, but he turned to Mycroft for help.

Mycroft seemed uncomfortable. “I don't think that's necessary. The problem is that, even though my little brother insists that they are nothing, I can't get my hands on the person who is sending them. We've come across dead end after dead end. Junkies, homeless, these are the kind of people who leave the envelopes here. But the source, Doctor Watson, is still a mystery.”

“To _you_?” John asked, astonished.

It wasn't that hard to believe something being a mystery to Lestrade, but to Mycroft, of all people, it seemed almost unreal.

“Yes, to _me_ ,” Mycroft's lips turned up, but without humour. “Do you see now _why_ this is a problem?”

“Yes.”

Of course he did. If Mycroft didn't know where the letters were coming from, it meant they weren't a joke. And the people behind them were going out of their way to stay hidden.

Sherlock sighed, dejected. “I don't see how this is helping.”

“You don't see why having one of our Majesty's best shots and your doctor by your side when you are receiving death threats is helping you?” Mycroft smiled at Sherlock, unpleasantly. He stood up and straightened his suit. “And you call yourself a genius.” He loomed over Sherlock, who had sat on his armchair again. “I will keep him posted,” he finished.

Walking over to John, he offered his hand. “Always a pleasure, Doctor Watson.”

John looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “I'll walk you out.”

He was on the receiving end of two Holmeses surprised expression. John wanted to take a picture.

Mycroft walked out of the room and John turned to Sherlock. He frankly had no idea of what to say.

_Why are you pushing me away all the time?_

_Don't you think I could shoot anyone who threatened to kill you?_

_I can't lose you again. Don't you see?_

“Stop moping. I hate it when you do that,” he said, instead.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his lips turned slightly up.

John smiled at him _._ “I'll be right back.”

He had a million things to discuss with another Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there, beautiful people!  
> thank you all again and again for the kudos. thank you all that took your time to left me a comment or a message, it means a lot to me. this is getting better and better. (:
> 
> i'm excited to this chapter, don't forget to let me know what you think!
> 
> I would also like to tell you that if you haven't read Blue is the warmest colour, then you should probably do that as soon as possible. I know, the movie is nice and all, but the comic book, guys, is just one of the saddest, warmest, most beautiful things ever. So yeah...


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Mycroft had told him they were meeting after John's day at work, which could only mean that John was getting kidnapped in the next hour."_

John looked out of his office window and sighed at the rain. London was definitely conspiring to make it one of the most depressing days of the last  few  weeks.

Mary had left work alone minutes before. John had something else to do. At least, he thought so.

Mycroft had told him they were meeting after John's day at work, which could only mean that John was getting kidnapped in the next hour. John hadn't been dealing with Holmeses for years for nothing. He knew their antics well enough. He had already put on his jacket, getting ready to wait for the black car that was inevitably going to pull over in front of the surgery at any moment.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and John turned on the screen.

**Bored. -SH**

John smiled. Trust Sherlock to be bored after a few hours without a case. He could swear the detective was getting even more impatient than he had always been.

**Sorry, I can't help. I've got a date** , he texted back. He hoped Mycroft wouldn't forget the candles and the wine.

_Ugh_ .

**Should I remind you that you are already engaged? -SH**

**I've got a date with your brother.**

John could make Sherlock's disgusted expression. He snorted to himself, observing a rain drop that ran down the window. He should probably wait downstairs, but he didn't fancy getting wet.

**For god's sake, was that really necessary? -SH**

**It's your own damn fault, isn't it?**

It  _was_ Sherlock's fault. He could have told John he was being threatened weeks ago, they could have had a good conversation – one of those in which people actually communicated. But no, Sherlock was still reluctant about telling him anything, so John had to turn to  _Mycroft_ for help.

Why couldn't Sherlock just bloody tell him himself?

**Well, if you must. Ask him how** **the diet is** **going. -SH**

John laughed. He didn't fancy getting arrested for calling the British Government fat either.

A black car pulled over in front of the surgery just as John started typing his reply to Sherlock. 

**Date just arrived. Go experiment on the head** , he typed the fastest he could, rushing to the lift.

**Just finished gauging the eyes out. -SH**

_Jesus fuck_ . What was even John's life, for Christ sake. If the police accidentally found his phone, he was going to be convicted for accessory to murder.

**Bye, Sherlock** , he sent and turned the phone off. He knew Sherlock well enough to suspect the detective would text him through the whole  _date_ just to upset Mycroft.

 

* * *

 

It shouldn't have surprised John that he was brought to Mycroft's private office at the  Diogenes Club, but for some reason it did .

That place had always made John feel inadequate beyond belief. He instinctively straightened his shoulders and his clothes. 

It took Mycroft a moment to come in – John thought he did that on purpose, just to intensify the dramatics.

Mycroft sat in front of him and he had some files with him– secret files, John supposed. He couldn't help remembering that one time when Mycroft had lied to his face about Moriarty and everything that was going to happen.

He squeezed his hands in fists to stop punching Mycroft in the face.

“I see you're being assaulted by your memories again,” Mycroft said, nonchalantly, without raising his eyes from the pages he was perusing. 

_God, he was such an obnoxious prick_ . Compared to Mycroft, Sherlock was a walk in the park. And John had never in his god damn life thought about Sherlock as an easy person.

“It's endearing how you seem to think I am the one to blame for Sherlock's faults. Tell me, do you blame for everything or just for this particular _scheme_?” The last word left Mycroft's lips as if it had a bitter taste in it.

_Everything_ , John thought and surprised himself by it.

It was ridiculous to blame Mycroft for Sherlock's mistakes. Mycroft was overpowering, but Sherlock had always been proud. He had always followed his own rules.

“Does this conversation have a point?” John asked, facing Mycroft fully. He knew the only way of dealing with the elder brother was to just be his captain self. 

He could play this game.

“Ah, of course,” Mycroft said, finally looking up from the files. “Always the pragmatic. Let's jump into business. You have questions and I shall answer them.”

“At least the ones you judge convenient,” John pointed out. 

“Quite,” Mycroft smiled without humour. “So, what is it you wish to know?”

“Everything.”

Mycroft's evil laughter sounded weak in John's ears. As if the British Government maybe wished he could have this choice, but didn't.

“There really isn't much to tell you about it. There has been a sequel of death threats. All of them in manila envelopes, words cut from the newspaper. Such a cliché,” Mycroft commented.

“Which newspaper?” John asked and that made Mycroft look at him sharply. It was John's time to smile at him humourlessly. “Come on, do you want me to believe Sherlock didn't deduce everything there was to know about the newspaper?”

“I was the one who _deduced_ it, in fact,” Mycroft pointed out. “You know very well that my brother couldn't care less about the media in general. And I had to face this particular newspaper more times than I wish to revisit at this moment.”

John waited for the information that was yet to come. For some unknown reason, Mycroft seemed particularly reluctant to tell him about the newspaper. “So?”

“They specifically used the issues of The Sun from the second week of June,” Mycroft told him.

John tensed in his chair. So it  _was_ very personal. It was the anniversary of Sherlock's  _death_ .

“June of 2011,” Mycroft said, and his lips had a tense line around them.

_Fuck_ . 

“Jesus,” John rubbed his face. How could Sherlock think it would be a good idea not to tell him that was beyond his comprehension. People were storing the newspapers from the day he had died! It was disgusting. “Is Moriarty really dead?”

“Indeed he is, Doctor Watson, and my brother and I believed we had _dissuaded_ all his associates in the time Sherlock was _away_ ,” Mycroft answered.

“Well, you were clearly wrong,” John said opening his arms in an expansive gesture. “It sucks, doesn't it? Being wrong?” He asked, bitterly. 

Mycroft scowled at him. “I must remind you that we have absolutely no proof that Moriarty's people are the ones behind all this.”

John raised an eyebrow. He couldn't imagine any other person behind this. Even if Moriarty was really dead, he would probably have given orders for his people to gather all the media cover of Sherlock's suicide and destruction. 

It didn't make sense that someone else would bother keeping those papers for so long, though. That Moriarty was strangely obsessed with Sherlock, John was fairly aware of, but that someone else would inherit the obsession seemed a crazy assumption.

Who would care about it that much? 

John refocused his eyes on Mycroft that was paying fully attention to him. John was getting more and more frustrated by all this.

“I want to know what happened,” John said, defiantly. 

“A lot of effort was put into that day, Lazarus was a huge operation,” Mycroft said, joining his hands over the files he had on his lap. “It cost me _two_ of my best agents–”

“I don't care about _that_ ,” John intercepted. Maybe someday he would be able to listen about that day without feeling like there was barbed wire around his neck. And he meant what he had said on that first day. He wanted to know why all that had been necessary. He still hadn't got a good answer to that. He suspected the death threats Sherlock was receiving had to do with it.

Mycroft looked hard at him.

“I want to know what happened in those two years, Mycroft. And judging by the files you have with you, you already know that. So _stop_ _bloody wasting our precious time_.”

Mycroft dared to smirk at this, but his eyes seemed soft. As if he had, indeed, imagined that John wouldn't let this go.

Well, he could be damn sure John wouldn't.

Finally, Mycroft started opening the five different files he had with him. He placed one after the other on the two tables beside them. “June of 2011, London,” he said, pointing to the picture of a thin man that looked almost too inoffensive to be involved in such a powerful criminal organization. 

_The first one_ , John thought. Probably the first person Sherlock had ever killed, if John was understanding correctly the  _'Eliminated'_ stamped in red over his face. John ran through the information  in the file. The guy didn't really seem like a threat, and John had some difficulty in placing him among Sherlock's first preoccupations after jumping to his 'death'.

One particular piece of information called his attention, though. 

_Sniper_ .

“Was he –”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “He was at the pool and he was at the building across from St. Bart's. One of Moriarty's favourite assassins.”

That hadn't been Sherlock  _working_ . That had been Sherlock avenging them.  _Him_ .

John let this realisation fit in his brain. He felt conflicted. He wasn't usually a vindictive person and he was always too worried about Sherlock's well - being to encourage that kind of thing. But at that moment, when he knew Sherlock was safe at Baker Street and he remembered everything Moriarty had led them to, he felt glad.

Mycroft pointed to a different file. That one showed a beautiful redhead woman dressed in a smart suit and high heels. 

_'Expertise: knifes'_ . 

John looked sharply at Mycroft. 

“July of 2011, Taza, Morocco,” the elder Holmes said, simply.

_Morocco_ . 

John rubbed his face to hide it from Mycroft's acute eyes. Sherlock had been stabbed right after jumping to his death. He had been alone in a different country in what could bloody well have been called a suicide mission.

“How could you let him do this, Mycroft?” John asked. It didn't make any sense that Mycroft had gone along with that frankly terrible plan. Sherlock wasn't a soldier, for Christ's sake, he wasn't a special agent. “He could have died!”

“Yes, but he didn't, now moving on to the others –”

“Well, but he could've!” John shouted. “Sherlock is not a fucking hero, he is your little brother, how could you let him almost _die_ there?”

“I _saved_ him, if you care to observe the facts, Doctor Watson. Who do you think rescued him from Morocco and did the elimination this time?”

“You let him go back out there and hunt Moriarty's people alone!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed as if this whole exchange pained him. “I'm flattered by your assumption that I have such control over Sherlock, even after living with him for so long,” he smiled unpleasantly. “You only think he was alone because  _you_ weren't with him. And believe me,  _that_ wasn't my decision.”

Being told by Mycroft Holmes that it had been Sherlock's choice to leave him behind made John's insides turn on themselves. He had already known that, but it hurt, nonetheless. 

John looked at the walls, helpless. He sometimes hated that sick bond he had with that family, cursed the day Mike had called his name at that park.

And then he remembered that that bond was still one of the things he cherished the most in his life.

He sighed and looked at Mycroft again. “Well, go on, then.”

Mycroft used a pen to point out the other three files he had placed on the table on his right. “February of 2012, Bern, Switzerland; April of 2012, Budapest, Hungary; August of 2013, Hannover, Germany.”

John smiled. He hated being treated like a simpleton. “I want to know what happened after Morocco, Mycroft. How did you find him, how did he look like, his injuries, his recovery.  _Everything_ . And you are going to tell me.”

Mycroft straightened his shoulders. John didn't know if he was aware of it, but he imagined nothing escaped the British Government’s awareness. “As you could notice by the dates, he required some months of medical care. First I had a doctor  whom I trusted entirely  shipped to Morocco. As soon as Sherlock's injuries allowed, I had Sherlock and him transported to Switzerland.”

“Well, that wasn't fast enough. I have seen the scar, Mycroft. It's not that different from my own and I was in the fucking Afghan desert,” John told him, trying to keep his voice down.

Mycroft turned a bit pale at that. “The lack of proper treatment in the first two weeks caused him to almost die. He had gone off the grid and I had lost him for a week before finding him captured by one of Moriar t y's associates. Until then, it's my opinion that Sherlock was facing Moriarty's network as an extension of the man himself: something apparently chaotic, but brilliant, with a touch of lunacy. He was wrong and he paid the price. The organization was extremely efficient and practical. Moriarty's antics were just his own,” Mycroft said. 

A man that looked like a butler brought in a tray with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. John didn't think Mycroft had asked for anything, but it didn't surprise him that people there were trained to fit his every need before he even had them. 

Usually John would refuse to have a drink with Mycroft, but he had to swallow down the lump in his throat. He noticed Mycroft was looking at the ice in his glass.

“Don't think Sherlock didn't miss you while he was there, John. He learned the hard way that one can't simply relinquish his doctor while running around chasing the most hunted criminals in Europe,” the elder Holmes said, sipping the whiskey.

John looked at his hands curled in fists. He couldn't help thinking over and over again that Sherlock should have let him go along. He couldn't help thinking that he would have gone to hell and back after Sherlock if he had just  _let him do that_ . 

“When was he tortured?” John asked.

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock was beaten a few times. I believe the x-ray you are talking about is the one take after Budapest. He was beaten again in Serbia – when the last event happened – and in other European and Asian countries while doing his...  _l_ _egwork_ ,” he said, and the last word seemed to have left a foil taste in his mouth. “I did the extraction again in Serbia, in last October.”

John perused the files again. “I don't see anyone from Serbia here.”

Mycroft smiled, but his eyes were hard. “Yes, I preferred to leave Baron Maupertuis alive. He had information of value to us.”

John nodded to show he understood. He still couldn't see how any of those people could be connected to the death threats Sherlock was receiving. “What about these, then?” He asked, pointing to the files on the table.

“Sherlock killed those who didn't give him a choice. As you well said, my brother is not a soldier, and he is no assassin either. Most of Moriarty's people were incarcerated and some of them were exchanged for information and diplomatic facilities between Our Majesty and other countries,” Mycroft smiled.

“Yes, I'm sure Queen Elizabeth was well aware of everything about Moriarty,” John smirked bitterly. He looked over to the files again. He was trying hard to make sense of the path Sherlock had gone alone, of everything he had had to face. 

And now he was being threatened again.  Would they ever have a break?

John looked at Mycroft and thought that if anyone could help him understand what was happening, it was the older brother. “What do you think?”

Mycroft raised an infuriating eyebrow back at him. He must have know n what John meant, but of course he wanted to hear him say.

“I know you are the smart one, Mycroft. Sherlock is an overgrown child sometimes. So, what do you think is happening? Do you think those death threats are linked to these people?”

Mycroft smiled a softer smile than was usual. “Quite frankly, Doctor Watson, I don't. I have my reasons to think those envelopes have absolutely nothing to do with Moriarty's work apart from the fact that they invoke Sherlock and Moriarty's relationship. We do not have any indication that his organization is behind all this.”

“But does this organization still exist?”

“Don't they always? I have no doubt it will raise again soon enough with another brilliant man behind it. But I don't believe they will worry about Sherlock Holmes until their paths cross again. These letters, these envelopes, they are not their style,” Mycroft said, and his tone left no room for doubt.

John himself didn't believe Moriarty's people would waste their time threatening to kill Sherlock when they could simply hire a sniper to end his life. This thought wasn't a pleasant one. John hoped Mycroft was right.

“The red seal...?” John asked.

“Easily forged. A magpie is not that uncommon,” Mycroft answered.

John nodded. His brain was going in a million different directions at the same time. “Why would someone do that? I mean, use this particular  M. O. to threat him?”

Mycroft had the guts to smile at this. John wanted to wipe that from his face with his fists. “Now, John, you are asking the right questions,” he said while pouring another shot of whiskey to himself. “It's a good disguise. We would be tempted to blame Moriarty and his associates. It would sent us on a fruitless chase. And it's another proof of how personal this is. It's my brother's life story, it's something linked to the reason he had to die, in the first place. It's his work.  _Your_ work.”

John nodded again, numbly. It made sense. So it was personal.  _But why the fuck was someone so pissed at Sherlock just months after his coming back?_

“That, John, is what we have to find out,” Mycroft answered the unasked question.

“Right,” John said. “I want to see the letters,” he said, not for the first time since he had discovered about them. He had no idea why Mycroft and Sherlock were being so secretive about them.

“That is not possible.”

John smiled humourlessly. He figured. 

“Let's just say they are unnecessarily theatrical. And too personal for anyone's comfort.”

John frowned at that. Who would have any personal information about Sherlock, for Christ's sake? The man was a class 1 liar, had faked his own death and planted a whole fake life story when tricking Moriarty. 

A certain thought started to form itself in John's head.

“Could this be Irene Adler?” He asked. “Maybe she sold him out. It wouldn't be the first time. Maybe she is feeding someone information about Sherlock.”

“It's indeed a possibility that I have considered, so I sent someone after her in America. I don't think she is our link to this person.”

“You have been wrong about them before,” John reminded him. 

“ _Them_?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

“Sherlock and Irene,” John said, trying not to show how uncomfortable that subject made him feel. He blamed on the fact that he didn't trust that woman for a second. He had yet to understand why the simple thought of her and Sherlock together made his stomach sink. “He likes her, he helped her once. Maybe she knows more about him than you are aware of.”

“ _He likes her_?” Mycroft asked, mimicking John's turn of phrase. He had a bewildered expression on his face.

“Well,” John shrugged.

“Was that what you deduced about his heart? That he _likes her_?” Mycroft said, with a deprecating smile on his lips. John felt insulted by it. “You, John, really are no detective.” 

John rolled his eyes. They were getting rather side tracked on their subject. He didn't want to think about Irene and Sherlock anymore. He didn't want to think about Irene tricking Sherlock and breaking his heart again.

“These threats, John, are as personal as throwing you at a bonfire.”

John's head snapped up at this and he looked straight into Mycroft's eyes. “Are they connected?”

Mycroft sighed, as if it pained him to admit that he wasn't sure. “Possibly.”

John squinted his eyes at Mycroft, thinking hard about that. He had barely entered Sherlock's life again and people were already using him to get to the detective. 

“This is why he doesn't want my help, isn't it?” John asked, rhetorically. 

He just didn't know if Sherlock was trying to protect him or was just tired of having a liability. John had been used against him more times than any other thing. And he was getting bloody tired of it.

It made him want to run back to Baker Street. It probably made Sherlock not want him there again. 

“Sherlock accepted your help the moment he let you find those x-rays, John. That was all the answer I needed,” Mycroft said. He collected all the files and piled them on his lap. “I suppose our meeting is over, Doctor Watson. I wish I had more information to give you, but I'm afraid that's everything.”

“I want to know about the surveillance you have on him,” John said. Mycroft just raised an eyebrow. “Come on, Mycroft. Your baby brother is receiving death threats you can't trace and you want me to believe you don't have a security detail following him everywhere? Give me some credit,” John smiled at him.

Mycroft seemed to ponder for a moment, before deciding to tell John the truth. “I bought the building across from 221B. It is occupied by agents. They are monitoring all the roofs in that particular block since we don't want to be surprised by long range rifles. Baker Street is being monitored 24/7. We've put detail on Mrs Hudson as well.”

John nodded. It was consistent with what he had expected.

“I also bought the house across from yours. And we've put details on you and your fiancée for good measure. I'm sure you comprehend,” Mycroft smirked.

John rolled his eyes. He didn't have in him to argue. Not after everything he had listened to.

“I ask that you do not disclose this information to anyone else.”

_Why would he ever tell anyone anything about_ _it_ _?_

Mycroft had stood up and straightened his suit. John figured the conversation was over. He imagined the British Government had other crisis to deal with apart from his little brother's. 

But first, there was still something he wanted to know.

“How did Sherlock break his arm?”

Mycroft smirked, as if he had been waiting for this question. John supposed he must have been.

“Following what we thought was a lead on this whole affair. Some information we received led us to Ireland, which was the first headquarters of Moriarty's network while the man was alive. Sherlock found a small cell of arms trafficking working with the still breathing part of IRA and was knocked unconscious.”

John nodded. “And what does that mean? That you were led there?”

Mycroft smiled. “That someone is going out of their way to not let us forget about the last three years, Doctor Watson. And I want to know why. I believe you do too, don't you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the kudos, subscriptions and comments.  
> 100 kudos! that's awesome!
> 
> sorry for the delay, but I am reading harry potter like a crazy person so I mostly forgot about everything else in my life. (honestly). I'm sure you all understand.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
>  
> 
> _"Only someone who had shared a dangerous life with him could really appreciate the sight of a living and breathing Sherlock Holmes. Only someone who had seen him with his head smashed and his eyes dead cold could know the relief of hearing his voice._
> 
> _Maybe John alone knew how to appreciate a safe Sherlock. He alone knew how rare that was."_

_With a strained breath_ _,_ _he pushed the heavy door. The metal ripped its way through the floor. The sound petrified his blood, clawed_ _at_ _his ears._

_Faint drag of the chains. Acrid smell of death._

_His limbs felt burdensome, hanging awkwardly of_ _f_ _his body. He needed to run, but the air_ _scarcely entered_ _in his lungs._

_Thuds of fists meeting a body – the unmistakable sound of violence._ _Tear_ _of flesh and drip of blood._

_He felt his body quiver and the fear grow paralysing. His feet seemed glued to the ground._

_He would run, he_ had to _, he told himself, uselessly. The voices become acute screams._

_Grave. The place had become a grave._

Sherlock _, he thought, painfully._

_It was already too late._

 

John opened his eyes, startled. It felt like reaching the surface of a freezing pond. He closed them again. He couldn't move. 

Breathing deeply, he told himself over and over again than it had been just a dream. Not a particularly graphic nightmare, nor anything related to the fall. He told himself to be glad that it hadn't been worse. 

John felt a ponderous dread sit over him, cover his body like the lid of a coffin, like the weight of a muzzle. He felt crippled. 

It hadn't been like the other nightmares. He hadn't screamed, hadn't felt any panic attack folding his body. What John felt the most – the only thing that could turn his person into nothing – was  _fear_ . The worst kind of fear, the fear of not being able to stop Sherlock from being killed.

Another difference from his other nightmares was that  his brain hadn't shut down completely. He told himself it was a good thing, but the truth was that his mind was running in all  the  worst directions, repeating a dozen times everything Mycroft had told John the day before. Every abuse Sherlock's body had suffered, every person he had pissed off and  who  could  now be trying to hurt him.

He couldn't shut up the voice that told him again and again that Sherlock could be being murdered at that exact moment and John wouldn't even know.

_Fear_ . 

John Watson, former captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers had been reduced to a puddle of terror. 

It was the same kind of helplessness Sherlock had always made him feel, but magnified by the death threats he was receiving. And the distance between them. 

He managed to swing his legs and plant his feet on the floor. He straightened his back and cracked his neck, grabbing his phone to check the time. Little past three in the morning. 

John stood up and walked to his bedroom, just to check on Mary, who seemed sound asleep. He was glad to have fallen asleep on the sofa. And that was m ore proof that his nightmare had been a silent one. Just to think of it made alarm coil in his belly again. He closed the bedroom door and went to the kitchen to give himself something to do. Trying to get back to sleep would be pointless, he knew that much. 

While the kettle didn't boil, he let all the information he had gathered from Mycroft bounce inside his head. Every day that Sherlock had been out there fighting for his life pounded in John's skull like a hit of a hammer. The detective had been travelling through continents alone, putting himself in line of danger. A line that consisted only of him – him and his unbearable sense of indestructibility. 

_Fucking_ Sherlock Holmes. Fucking  William Sherlock Scott Holmes, for that matter.

John filled his mug with hot water and watched it  darken from the tea leaves . He thanked heavens for not feeling sick as he  sometimes felt after a nightmare.

He leaned on the counter and took a deep breath, trying to get his head straight. He held the mug with his two hands, letting the warmth ground him.

John was addicted to danger, yes, but he was addicted to the danger he could fight with his training. He was addicted to the danger he could overcome and paint with justice instead. He wasn't addicted at all to the general sense of dread that seemed to be tying his legs and arms. 

At that very moment something could be happening. And he couldn't just run down a flight of stairs and crack Sherlock's door open to see for himself that everything was right in the world. He had done it many times.

So maybe he was a little bit over protective, but who could blame him? He had been trained  for that kind of life, he had been almost programmed from his mother's womb to be like that. He had to defend himself and the people around him more times than not ; it was natural to him.

He looked at the clock hanging sadly on the kitchen wall. 

He remembered when Moriarty  had  showed up in their lives. He remembered the day he  had  slept on Sarah's couch and woke up to the news that Sherlock could have been blown up to dust. He remembered  feeling small. 

It was an odd tradition, he supposed. But in some twisted sort of way, it suited them. 

He remembered rushing out of Sarah's flat, not trusting phones to assure him of anything.

He remembered running up the seventeen steps to 221B to be presented with the sight of Sherlock facing Mycroft in the living room. 

The marvellous sight of Sherlock in one piece, unharmed. Clever and cunning as ever. 

Only someone who had shared a dangerous life with him could really appreciate the sight of a living and breathing Sherlock Holmes. Only someone who had seen him with his head smashed and his eyes dead cold could know the relief of hearing his voice. 

Maybe John alone knew how to appreciate a safe Sherlock. He alone knew how rare that was.

He felt his heart tug painfully in his chest. He felt handicapped, something similar to what he used to feel months after Sherlock had died. When all the desperation and anger had given room to the dull ache and general emptiness that never went away.

Maybe it never would.

John took his mug of tea to the living room and sank on the couch, trying to get some warmth back in his body. He looked sideways to his phone and sighed. To call Sherlock at three in the morning for no apparent reason would be insane. 

But then, again, not knowing if everything was fine  would also drive him insane. 

John sighed again, relenting to his overprotectiveness. He wouldn't make a habit out of it, he promised himself. He wouldn't start calling Sherlock every night to know if everything was okay. 

He let the phone rest by his side on the couch, and observed it as one observes a wild animal. He felt vaguely like a teenager in a first relationship. It was bloody ridiculous, for Christ's sake. His worry was absolutely reasonable, and he hadn't talked to Sherlock after leaving Mycroft's office at the  Diogenes . Not that that excused anything.

_No_ . He wouldn't call. 

That would be ridiculously unnecessary. Mycroft would contact him if something was amiss, he knew that much. The elder Holmes had learned to trust John through the years, and he knew John would do anything to keep his little brother safe.

John grew more restless by the minutes. The sounds of his nightmare seemed to be getting louder in the silent of the night time. 

Something  _could_ be happening. 

It was a fair possibility. Mycroft could have his hands so full that he wouldn't have time to contact John. And Sherlock and Mrs Hudson were alone in that building, no help would be as efficient as John could be, if just he were  _there_ .

_Fuck it_ , he thought, grabbing the phone and pressing 1. It rang two and a half times before John could hear Sherlock's voice.

“John?” The detective said, sounding more distressed than John would have imagined. “John, what's wrong?” He didn't sound groggy, probably hadn't been asleep, just as John figured. 

The baritone made his legs turn to liquid. Sherlock was fine, being Sherlock, experimenting on body parts or lying bored on the couch. 

“ _John_!”

Oh. John should probably answer that. It was probably looking creepy as fuck. “Hi, I'm here,” he said, idiotically. 

Sherlock's breath seemed quick and tense.  “What's wrong?” He asked again. 

“Nothing,” John tried to reassure him, but it sounded weak in his own ears. His voice was strained, he didn't sound like himself and he knew Sherlock could notice everything through a simple phone call. _Fuck_ , he could probably tell if John was wearing socks or not.

Their lives forced them to be always ready for the worst. Sherlock's  quick response  at  picking up the phone revealed someone who was ready to get dreadful news at the most ungodly hours.

John hated that. And he hated that Sherlock made him feel as vulnerable as this.

“Vatican cameos...?” Sherlock asked, and by his tone John knew he was trying to deduce what had happened.

“No,” John sighed, but his lips curled slightly up. That was their life. Ready to get to their battle stations in no time. 

The problem was that John was himself too far from his station. He was trying to reach it through a phone call and it felt weak and dire. 

“ _Oh,”_ Sherlock breathed over the phone. John could almost see his mind palace bursting with everything he had on John and organizing  a hypothesis for the phone call. John let him do it because it soothed him. For the first time since their lives had been turned upside down. 

“ _Oh,”_ Sherlock said, again, now more firmly. He had probably deduced that John had a nightmare, worsened by everything Mycroft had told him. 

They were silent for a moment. John knew it was ridiculous, but he let Sherlock's breaths dictate the rhythm of his own. He  had been agitated since he had woken up, and just now he could feel calm enough again.

“Well, thank god you called!” Sherlock whined, as if the first bit of their conversation had never happened. It was a relief. “This must be the dullest night in the history of nights everywhere!” 

John smiled. Trust Sherlock to say the right thing to dissipate the awkwardness that hanged before. He sighed, letting the familiarity of Sherlock's voice and complaints embrace him. 

“People normally sleep at night,” John said, falling easily back on their usual banter. They used to have this conversation three times a week when John had still been working with Sarah. Sherlock had always been outraged by the fact that John had to sleep to wake up early. Not that he used to respect John's sleeping schedule, of course.

“Ugh, sleeping. As I just said: boring,” Sherlock complained.

“What are you doing, then? Tell me you haven't been shooting the walls again,” John asked, lying back on the couch to give his body some rest.

“No, I've been saving that for a special occasion, but thank you for the reminder,” the detective replied and John could hear the smile in his voice. “I've been reorganizing my notes on the experiment I was doing earlier.”

“The one with the eyes? What are the conclusions then?”

“First of all, don't use an eye for tea, it really adds nothing to the taste,” Sherlock replied, seriously.

John laughed out loud and then promptly put his hand over his mouth. He didn't want to wake Mary. “Oh, no, you didn't.”

“It was an accident!” Sherlock tried to defend himself, but laughed heartily. “And Mrs Hudson wasn't here to replace my tea with a fresh one. It was all her fault.”

“Obviously,” John said, still laughing. “It is her fault if you are completely nuts.” He could bet Sherlock was probably shrugging. Not even Sherlock himself could deny the fact that he _was_ crazy. 

John heard as the other man's laughter died down slowly. He didn't feel the need to fill the silent with nothing else. It had always been like that with them. No small talk, just a general sense of fulfilment being around each other. Something that John had never been able to explain, really. 

Well, Sherlock did occupy more space than any other thing in the world. He seemed to have the mass of a whole planet is John's life. 

“What about the violin, then?” John asked apropos of nothing. For some reason, he had been thinking about that frequently. He needed that to happen again soon – needed at least that piece of normality back. 

“I wouldn't really know,” Sherlock replied, quietly.

“What do you mean?” John frowned. He thought Sherlock would jump right on it again the minute he saw himself out of that cast. John knew that his hand was okay, but worried about it, nonetheless.

“John, my hand is fine. I'll play the violin soon enough.”

“Soon enough?” John asked, mockingly. “Come off it, that's not even an actual amount of time.”

“Right. So I will play the violin in thirteen days, twenty-three hours and eleven seconds, give or take, not considering the eventual cases that will demand my expertise,” Sherlock's smile was a constant presence in his voice. 

John tried not to get lost in it. He suspected he was also the only one who knew not to take for granted a smiling Sherlock Holmes.

“Is that better?” The detective asked, amused.

John cleared his throat. He had absolutely no idea of why Sherlock needed almost two weeks to play the violin again. “No, it's not. Are you in any pain?”

Sherlock tutted – actually tutted, the git.  “No, Doctor Watson, I am not. Do you want to control my violin too? Isn't this a bit too much?”

_No_ , John thought. He laughed because he couldn't not to, really. He had to agree with Sherlock, he sounded a bit deranged. 

“You just have to play the violin again,” John said, trying to sound nonchalant, but knowing he wasn't making much sense. Sherlock had to play the violin, yes, if he felt like it. Not just so John felt normal again, just so John felt one more piece of his life coming back to place again.

Sherlock sounded thoughtful.  “I'll do my best,” he said, with an intensity that John could not interpret. 

John closed his eyes and thought about being at Baker Street, on his armchair with a warm cup of tea in his hand while Sherlock stood near the window, playing the violin. He tried to remember how many times that had happened, but he knew it would be a useless task. People took for granted those little moments in life – those little moments when the  simplest kind of happiness made everything feel just  _right_ .

And now that all that was over, he felt as if he hadn't valued it enough.

“John?” Sherlock called his attention. “Are you asleep?”

“Nah,” John replied, “that isn't happening tonight.” He rubbed his face.

“Uh,” Sherlock let out a dubious sound. 

John could hear some unidentifiable background noise. It seemed as if Sherlock was walking around the flat. 

A sharp sound of breaking glass on the other side of the line made John jump to his feet. “Sherlock!”

The seconds of indistinct noise and nothing more felt like a lifetime of doubt in John's perception.

“I'm here,” Sherlock said, sounding a bit out of breath. “I _might_ have broken a few glasses.”

John tried to smile, but his face changed into something ugly and pained. He was going mad. He was getting on edge by a mere unfamiliar sound.

What the fuck was happening to him, he asked himself. When the hell was this going to stop? 

It was hard for him to reconcile Sherlock Holmes, the obnoxious genius, with the guy who gave up on every bit of the life he loved – and he bloody well loved being the only consulting detective in the world – to go on a  man hunt that cost him two years of his life. He had trouble reconciling all this with Sherlock, his best friend Sherlock, who was now talking to him on the phone in an empty flat. A flat that they used to share. A flat where there used to be tea and violin and science and papers everywhere. Where John had a comfy armchair and a family. 

John's head was spinning. He didn't know how to make it stop. 

“ _John,”_ the detective said, soothingly. John asked himself if that had been on purpose. Maybe Sherlock didn't know what else to say. 

John didn't know either.

“I talked to your brother, you know,” John said, trying to school his tone to something less broken. He wasn't sure he had succeeded. “He told me what you did, what you've gone through.”

“John–”

“Just– Just hear me out,” he said out of breath. “You should have told me before. I can't believe all that was happening and _I didn't know_!”

“You couldn't–”

“I know, I wasn't supposed to know, but _bloody hell_ , Sherlock,” John said through his teeth. “You could have died,” he said numbly, his breaths ragged.

“I was already dead,” Sherlock said, bluntly. 

Heartless arsehole. John shut his mouth to stop himself from telling Sherlock to go fuck himself. 

“I'm not dead anymore, obviously. It was the best outcome.”

At what cost? John asked himself. He asked himself  every day .

“For how long, hm? For how long will you stay alive, Sherlock? All these letters, what if they aren't 'nothing', what if the person behind this decides to actually kill you?”

“This is pure conjecture. We can't know before–” 

“ _Before we have all the data_ , I know,” John smiled bitterly. He knew Sherlock would say that. It was something usual to their dynamic; the more desperate John got, the colder and more distant Sherlock got. It was a sort of counterbalance, but dear lord, didn't John hate it. “Let me tell you what is going to happen from now on.”

“John, this is hardly–”

“Shut up. Shut up and listen. What is going to happen now is: anything that happens, you will tell me. Anything out of the ordinary that you observe, I want to know. If a new letter arrives, you will tell me, are you listening to me?”

Sherlock huffed.  “Honestly–”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock complied. 

“Good,” John nodded. “If you have a case, you will let me know. If you are to run to a rough part of town at an ungodly hour, I want to know. And you _will. Tell. Me_. Do you get it?”

“Copy that,” the detective said, sounding bored. “Anything else? You sound like Mycroft.”

“No, I don't. I am asking you to _tell me_. I'm not going to spy on you to know any of this. Trust, do you remember about it? Trust. I am trusting you to do what I am asking. Cause–” John's voice became thick with everything he was trying so hard not to show. 

Because he needed to know. 

Because he needed to have the chance to do something.

John took a deep breath. “You will tell me. Everything,” he finished. 

“I will,” Sherlock answered. And he actually sounded like he meant it. 

“I'll be there tomorrow,” John told him, trying to shake off the heaviness that had sat between them. “Okay?” 

It was strange to ask permission to be there. 

“Of course. I hope there is an interesting crime scene for us to visit. Or we can have dinner,” the other man suggested.

“By dinner you mean I will eat while trying to force you to do the same?”

“Just so,” Sherlock smiled. Again, it filled John's ear like the one of the melodies he used to play on the violin.

“Works for me,” John shrugged. 

It had been working like that for a long time.

 

* * *

 

The next time he woke up, John surprised himself to notice he had actually fallen asleep again. He sat up on the sofa and squinted at his phone, lighting up the screen to see the time.

“You seemed peaceful,” Mary's voice came up from his side, startling him. She smirked.

John yawned and thought that she was right. He hadn't slept that well in a long time. It seemed awfully  strange that he would have such a good – half – night sleep right when he'd discovered the truth about the threats Sherlock was receiving. 

He gave her a small smile. “Good morning to you too,” he said stretching his back and neck. He stood up and walked to her embrace. She smelled of soap and body lotion. 

Her breath smelled like tea, which made his stomach grumble in response. He supposed a good sleep made him hungry. He wouldn't remember, really.

After filling a mug of hot coffee for himself, John sat with Mary at their kitchen table, watching while she buttered a toast for him. It was good to have someone take care of him sometimes. He often forgot that. 

Though happy for the deserved rest he'd got, John's head was already going back online and he couldn't help the tension that came naturally with it. He became hyper-aware of the clock ticking and of the faint noise of their neighbours. He asked himself how many of them were actually neighbours and how many were Mycroft's minions. 

Shouldn't all of them be focused in protecting Sherlock and Mrs Hudson at Baker Street?

“John?” Mary called him, not for the first time. John's eyes refocused on his fiancée's. “I said, do you want another toast?”

John sighed. Carrying all those secrets inside him wasn't doing them any good. “Yes, love, thanks.”

“Don't 'love' me,” Mary tutted at him. “You always 'love' me when you've screwed up. Instead, tell me what's wrong.”

John knew denying would be useless. If there was something Mary was , it not was stupid. That woman could probably smell bullshit from miles away. He was glad he wasn't planning to have an affair. 

However, he didn't want to worry her. Mary was strong, sure, John knew she could handle the truth. But he also knew their relationship was not at its best moment. To lay all that information in front of her would only complicate things even more. She would walk around looking over her shoulder, which could tip off the whole scheme Mycroft had set up to protect Sherlock and themselves. 

John reached out and grabbed one of her hands. He wished he could tell her everything, but he couldn't. 

And at the same time, he knew all those secrets would end up driving them apart. He didn't want that. He knew he could trust her – it gutted him that he couldn't risk putting her in even more danger. 

“Something is happening,” he told her. It sounded lame in his own ears. 

“So you keep saying, John,” she squeezed his hand. “Can't you tell me at once _what_ is happening?”

John shook his head. “It's not safe, Mary, I'm sorry.”

At that information, her whole posture changed. John found it a  bit out of character, but it wasn't, not really. She was being dragged into something she was not used to, it was only normal she would feel defensive. 

“What do you mean, are you in danger?”

“No,” John said, quickly. 

_Maybe_ . 

The truth was that it didn't matter.

He knew his face showed the confusion of his thoughts.

“John, tell me what's happening,” Mary said in a voice that left no room for arguments. He had never heard that urgent tone before. He thought his own captain self must have been rubbing off on his fiancée. 

It made something warm unfurl in the pit of his stomach – showing him that he was part of something. Not only running around after Sherlock, trying to work with whatever scrap of information the detective allowed John to have. It was kind of nice being the influence for once. 

He squeezed her hand back and brought his other one to land on top of their joined hands. 

She deserved his trust.

“Sherlock is receiving death threats,” John started, thinking about how much he could tell her without making her life miserable. 

“I thought this kind of thing was common in his line of work.”

“Yeah, but these ones are different. Seem more serious.”

Mary's face showed she wasn't satisfied in the least. John could feel all the apprehension pouring out of her.

“Moriarty could be involved,” he said. It wasn't exactly accurate, but she would understand the seriousness of the situation well enough.

Mary stood up abruptly and paced back and forth once. “You told me he was dead. Moriarty  _is_ dead.” She tried to recollect herself. “Isn't he?”

John stood up two. “Yes, he is, but he's got associates, he always had. It's a possibility.”

“A _possibility_?” She asked, trying to sound like herself again, but John could see how affected she was. It pained him that he had to put her through this. 

“Yes, Mycroft is digging into it. Look, love,” John whispered in her ear after embracing her. “Everything is going to be fine, all right? I'm sorry to throw this on you, I shouldn't have.”

Mary looked at his eyes and she had a strange glitter in her stare. As if she had some unknown force inside her. John hugged her tighter. 

“Yes, everything is going to be fine,” she said, voice dead cold. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey you all, thanks for the kudos and thanks for continuing to read and follow this story! Sorry about the delay.
> 
> it has been kind of slow, cause i'm working like mad and reading harry potter like mad, so you all understand!
> 
> please, let me know what you think, tell me about your theories about Mary.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> “Jesus Christ!” John said. “Couldn't you knock to warn me instead of giving me a heart attack?” He rearranged himself on the seat and nodded to the cabbie so that he knew that Sherlock was a friend and not a fugitive from a nearby madhouse.
> 
> Well, maybe he was a bit.
> 
> Sherlock gave him a stunning smile. One of those that would be able to burst one of Molly's blood vessels, if only Sherlock didn't save them all for John. “John! The game is on!”

John snuggled in the back seat of the cab, resting his tired head on the cold window glass. His shoulders were rigid. His life as a GP was nothing compared to being a soldier or being Sherlock's sidekick, but – bloody hell – it drained him.

Well, it drained him for different reasons, but still...

He gave 221B address to the cabbie and closed his eyes. He couldn't shake off the loneliness that crept up his spine. Mary had travelled somewhat unexpectedly to help a friend in Ireland – or so she had said. John didn't feel he had the right to question her.

He felt much too guilty for that.

He had been weak for telling her about the danger Sherlock was in. Mary was probably trying to run away from that madness and though it killed him, he thought she was right in doing so. He tried to feign being angry about her leaving, but behind the bit of loneliness that bothered him now and again, there was a much stronger sense of relief.

It was different from feeling responsible for Sherlock. Sherlock was impossible to control, had his own mad pace, couldn't be tamed. Mary was a strong person, yes, but a normal person, nonetheless. She hadn't been made to the battlefield.

John shouldn't have worried her with all that. He should've waited.

God, he was _shite_.

And at the same time, he felt as if he had betrayed the trust Mycroft had placed in him. He hadn't told Mary any details about the surveillance, of course, but it still sat wrong in his stomach that he hadn't been able to keep his mouth shut.

Maybe all that time alone had left him desperate to _share_ himself, to have a normal life of _togetherness_ , companionship.

John sighed and looked out of the window, observing the damp his breath had left on the glass. His head was beginning to throb.

His partnership with Sherlock was built in a very different way than his relationship with Mary – or of any other normal couple, for that matter. Not that Sherlock and he were a couple, of course. Not that he would even consider this sort of thing.

No, their relationship was not built on understanding or heart-to-heart conversations, not even on respect.

Their partnership had been built on desperation since the day one – on a bone-deep necessity John had never been able to explain. He had never tried to. Not until Sherlock had come back from the dead and John had second-guessed all they had gone through. He didn't trust Sherlock as a person – had never trusted him to tell the truth, even before the whole not-really-dead ruse. What he felt for Sherlock was an unaccountable devotion that wouldn't make any sense if he were talking about anyone other than Sherlock Holmes.

As a completely extraordinary man, it was natural that Sherlock prompted the most extraordinary sentiment in people. It happened all the time – Sherlock was just too emotionally ignorant to notice. Or too much of a git to care.

It was a kind of... _love_ , John supposed.

He closed his eyes again. He couldn't deny the little declarations of love their partnership demanded every day. Saving each other's lives, protecting one another...

Making sure Sherlock ate at least enough to keep standing. John snorted faintly to himself. It _was_ a kind of love. Sometimes it had been a very domestic and silly kind of love.

At other times it had been a throat-clogging passion that had left John completely hollow after watching Sherlock jump to his death. It had eaten him up from the inside.

He flexed his hands and rolled his left shoulder.

He had to learn how to divide himself in two to make the most of the lives that now presented themselves in front of him. How to love Mary and deserve her love without dragging her into a sort of madness that, honestly, didn't have room for her. And how to continue to be Sherlock's partner, at least in the ways the detective would still have him.

John felt gutted by the feeling that maybe they would never be what they once had been. The silly domestic affection had been replaced by a never ending emptiness.

That place – that intimate place in which John and Sherlock were best friends, sharing a life outside the crime fighting world – _that_ had become an old dusty trunk full of memories in an empty attic.

Maybe in another lifetime John could have been able to bring those two lives together, to build a third path for him. A third path in which Sherlock and Mary would have become friends and gang up on John for getting fat or something as ridiculous as that, but not in this one. He felt too much of a coward to give up the uniqueness of both relationships.

He refused to face the faults in his reasoning. He simply did not have the heart for it now.

The cab came to a halt and John looked outside. He was surprised to realise he was already at Baker Street. Before he could get his wallet to pay the fare, Sherlock jumped inside the cab, barking an address to the cabbie.

“Jesus Christ!” John said. “Couldn't you knock to warn me instead of giving me a heart attack?” He rearranged himself on the seat and nodded to the cabbie so that he knew that Sherlock was a friend and not a fugitive from a nearby madhouse.

Well, maybe he was a bit.

Sherlock gave him a stunning smile. One of those that would be able to burst one of Molly's blood vessels, if only Sherlock didn't save them all for John. “John! The game is _on_!”

John shook his head, but smiled fondly. He couldn't help it. _Nutter_. “Tell me.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock talked non-stop about the crime scene to which they were headed. Lestrade had sent him some pictures, so he kept squinting at his phone while babbling to John about how the blood spatter indicated a crime of opportunity.

Sherlock turned his phone over and over again, as if that could provide him with different angles of the living room.

“See here, this empty spot on the coffee table,” he said, not really waiting for John to answer. “This is a wealthy house, decorated with the best furniture and accessories. It is highly unlikely that someone who went out of her way to match couches, carpets and curtains would be so remiss as to leave this spot empty,” he nodded to himself. “It is asymmetric.”

John would argue that maybe the woman simply liked the coffee table like that, but when had he been right about a crime scene? He just nodded and kept looking at the pictures.

He was interested in the case, of course, but Sherlock's sudden appearance hadn't given him time to dissipate the cloud of thoughts he had been mustering over before.

“Robbery gone wrong?” John asked, in lieu of any clever comment to make.

Sherlock hummed. “Maybe. I need data.”

John nodded absent-mindedly and looked out of the window again.

Minutes later he noticed Sherlock had stopped talking. John could almost feel the other man's eyes on his neck. He turned to face him.

“What?”

Sherlock did that thing he did when he was accessing all the dark secrets of someone. His piercing gaze made John feel more than a bit exposed. It excited him at some degree, but he feared Sherlock finding out things John wasn't sure he could explain.

_Why do you still have nightmares about me?_

_Why are you so miserable?_

Jesus. Just get your shit together, Watson.

“What?” He asked again.

Sherlock frowned. His eyes were still scanning John's face. “You... Are upset.”

John sighed.

Was he? Why?

Fuck, he didn't know where to start.

John watched while Sherlock looked down at his own hands resting on his lap. The detective flexed his fingers twice. John reckoned the talk was over. Well, that had been quick and he was glad for it.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Did I– hm,” he said, awkwardly. He sighed. “I'm sorry.”

John frowned. He had no idea of what Sherlock was on about. “Why?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He tried again, but just huffed unhappily. “I don't know!” He looked at John with soft round eyes. “I don't know what I did wrong, but I'm sorry. Should I have been more careful to talk about the deceased?” Sherlock was tapping his fingers on his leg. John asked himself if he was aware of it. “Well, you know how I get, but we are going to solve it, that's what we can do for the victim–”

“Sherlock–”

“Really, John, sometimes I wish you would just nag me like you used to–”

“Oi!” John said, more firmly. That got the madman's attention. “You haven't done anything wrong. It's all right...” he trailed off. He looked intently at Sherlock's eyes. The eyes that had been a bit scared seconds ago and now were just plainly confused. It made John feel warm to know Sherlock cared that much.

It also pained him a bit to notice Sherlock was always waiting for him to snap. “It's all right, okay?”

The other man looked a bit wary, but nodded.

And John found that he really meant it.

For now, it was all right.

 

* * *

 

The cab took them to the rich neighbourhood the crime had taken place. They could see the Yard cars parked nearby. It was a beautiful house, not as big as the others around, but equally imposing. Lestrade came out of the building to greet them.

He was already talking to Sherlock when John finally paid the cabbie and got out of the car.

The D.I. smiled and nodded at him, but kept talking. “The scene is a bit gruesome, not that you'd have a problem with that,” he said, as Sherlock and John followed him inside the house. “Something seems a bit off. There are signs of struggle,” he pointed to the furniture and broken china spread all over the floor. “But the guys took everything that was on the safe anyway...” he indicated the stairs that lead to the bedroom.

The body was in the living room and Lestrade hadn't been exaggerating. Someone had hit the woman more than once with a blunt object. Her name was Margaret Smith, not more than thirty-five years old. A beautiful woman who had a horrible end.

For once, Sherlock wasn't looking at the body, but frowning at the scene, as if something weren't quite right with the whole picture. John just waited.

“Who else lives here?” Sherlock asked while scanning the floor. He crouched, probably looking for the murder weapon.

“We haven't found indication of any other resident. There's only one bedroom and a home office upstairs,” Greg answered.

Sherlock let out a triumphant sound, and showed them a bloodied trophy that had fallen between the couch and the wall. John could see that the object matched the victim's injuries. Well, he had found the murder weapon – that was a start.

The consulting detective was squinting at the object. “He was wearing gloves,” he concluded.

No such luck as fingerprints, then. _Bastard_.

John looked at the body again. Sherlock was right about the criminal being a man, of course. That kind of damage had been caused by someone fairly large and strong. The victim was not a tiny woman, by all means, so her assailant must have been a powerful one.

“Where is her daughter?” Sherlock asked, while still examining the trophy.

John felt his blood freeze. Oh, god, was there a dead kid somewhere?

“Daughter?” Lestrade's confused voice came from the hallway where he was talking to one of his guys.

Sherlock showed them the trophy. “The victim is a bit old to be dancing ballet in school, don't you think? It could be a boy, yes, but a girl is statistically more likely.”

“We didn't find any indication of a child in this house. Maybe she's got a niece.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You probably saw, but didn't observe! This,” he showed them the trophy again, “was in display right here in the living room, a part of the house meant for close family,” he concluded. “Also, the victim didn't have any sisters,” he said, getting past them and heading to the bedroom. “Come along, John!”

They ran upstairs and John walked fast through the hallway to get to the bedroom. However, when he looked for Sherlock, he noticed the man had stopped halfway. He was frowning, looking lost in his own thoughts.

Suddenly, he turned to the wall and squinted at a painting. He took down the frame and ran his hands smoothly on the wall. Finally seeming satisfied, he joined John again in the bedroom entrance.

They could see the safe, now empty. It didn't show signs of being forced open, so the victim had probably opened it herself. John asked himself why had the criminal killed her, then.

On the bed there was a notebook, an appointment book, and a box of Kleenex together with some painkillers. On the dresser, John could see the remaining of a cup of tea. He turned to look for Sherlock, but the detective wasn't anywhere near the bed. He was doing the same thing he had done on the hallway, now on the bedroom wall.

Sherlock pushed a bookshelf out of the way and John suddenly understood what was off about the house. They could see a small door, not three feet high, that led to a child's bedroom.

Sure enough, there should be a little girl in that house. “Jesus,” John whispered, closing his eyes for a moment.

 

* * *

 

They were gathered in the living room. The body had already been removed and no child was found in the house. The forensics team was processing the bedrooms – of which Sherlock had already collected some evidence of his own to run a few tests. He hadn't told them anything yet and John knew Lestrade was getting more and more impatient by the second.

“Give me whatever you got,” he told Sherlock. “What are we looking at? Robbery gone wrong?”

“ _Kidnapping_ gone wrong,” Sherlock corrected him. “The child, she was the target.”

 _Shit_.

John heard Lestrade barking orders to his men. “I don't care if the neighbours are refusing to talk, threaten to arrest everyone! There's a kid missing. Do it, _now_!”

Sherlock's dull voice explained what had happened. “The mother shouldn't have been here. She had a cold, was working from home. The girl should have been home with her nanny – a much easier target to kidnappers. The mother called the nanny earlier this morning as we could see on her phone, probably to tell her she was free from work today. She was taking advantage of her sick day to stay with her daughter. Well, it didn't go well for them.”

“Sherlock,” John reprimanded him.

Sherlock continued. “The mother thought she was prepared for something like that, she herself hid her child from others, she tried to mask the bedroom. Maybe they were being threatened,” he mused. “The question is: _why_ would someone kill the person who would pay the ransom?” Sherlock asked, rhetorically, pointing to the blood spatter. “This wasn't an amateur job. They tried to cover the presence of the child, simple-minded Londoner criminals do not act like this.” He joined his hands in front of his face in something that resembled his usual thinking pose.

“The father...?” John asked.

Lestrade brought a picture someone of his team had found. “She is a widow. Her husband was one of the partners at Pearson & Mills. He was the Mills in the name, by the way. But I just made some calls and the victim had nothing to do with the bank, except for an allowance she received every month for her daughter. She had her own art gallery, and it was not worth millions.”

Sherlock was typing something on his phone and quickly brought a picture of the deceased with his partner Michael Pearson. He magnified the picture and let out a dubious sound. “Where's the picture of the girl?”

After Lestrade had handed him the picture, Sherlock proceeded to analyse both side by side. John had no idea what he was getting at and was getting jittery thinking about that poor kid.

“Have someone look into the bank's financials and any disputes between the owners. I think you'll find your motive,” Sherlock said.

“They weren't working alone, then?” John asked.

“Oh, no,” Sherlock answered. “Whoever did this was led here by an interested party, probably someone intimate, judging by the effort the victim made to mask the presence of her daughter in the house. The murder wasn't planned. She struggled to save the girl and was killed because of that. She followed them to the living room and probably tried to take the girl back from the person's hold. So there wasn't a gun involved. Killing was never the plan. The person who is behind this is not going to be happy.”

“Do you think they will try to get rid of the girl?” Lestrade asked, terse.

“I think the chances of that becoming the outcome are increasing by the minute, Inspector. Call Pearson for questioning,” Sherlock told them, turning hastily and walking out the door.

John hated when he did that. For God's sake. That was a child abduction, that wasn't the time to show off.

“To the lab, John,” Sherlock turned back and shouted at him. “Come on!”

They hopped into the cab that had appeared out of nowhere.

John could feel the adrenaline pumping in his veins.

“So, who do you think is behind all this?” John asked, as soon as the cab started moving.

“One shouldn't presume before having all data,” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him. John had been told that many times.

It never ceased to be bloody annoying, though.

“Come off it, you have already figured it out, haven't you?” John tried to say it lightly, but the situation demanded an action was taken soon and he wasn't in the mood for Sherlock's act.

The detective looked at him intently and nodded, seeming to comprehend everything John was not saying. Maybe he could detect the urgency in his eyes. It wouldn't be the first time.

“Money,” Sherlock said, looking out of the window. “The reason. It's always money with these people. Judging by the allowance the victim was given every month by the company, and by other examples like that, I _estimate_ ,” he said the world as if it were difficult for him, “that the board of such a company must have a rule regarding the payment of ransoms in case of kidnapping. It's not uncommon to big companies whose owners become high profile targets. I suspect the rules are also applied to their family members and that the amount of money in the case of a child's kidnapping must be meaningful.”

“Okay” John nodded, that made sense. “Anyone could be behind all this, then. Many people must know her daughter would be worth millions.”

“Not so many, no,” Sherlock disagreed. “She kept the girl hidden from everyone, remember? And only very few people would have the knowledge to plan such an elaborate scheme that would have gone brilliantly if it weren't for the fortuitous cold our victim had,” he looked expectantly to John.

“Who would be that intimate, but heartless enough to plan this?” John felt a bit sick. One would think that after being in the army and working with Sherlock for so much time, he would be used to people's cruelty, but no. He was far from being a romantic, but he was too much of a fighter to get used to this.

“Maybe the childless business man who is near to be bankrupt?” Sherlock asked, showing John an article on his phone.

It read 'Michael Pearson, only living owner of Pearson & Mills, going down for tax evasion'.

“Shit.” It made sense. It all made sense. “You have to tell Greg to arrest him.”

Sherlock sighed, somewhat annoyed. “And for what? Because I have – God forbid – a _hunch_ ?” He sounded disgusted. “ _Investigate_ , John. That's what we do. Data, that's what I need to solve this and to be able to _prove_ it,” he said, turning away to his window. His jaw line showed determination. “Without proof everything turns to ashes and we let dangerous criminals get away with everything.”

John felt his throat tight.

He was hit by the memory of Moriarty and the sensation of watching everything they had worked on be destroyed bit by bit up to the point where they became the mice and Moriarty, the house cat.

He remembered watching Moriarty walk away free, he remembered calling Sherlock to warn him that Moriarty was going after him.

He remembered those last days of anxiety and a fucking hopelessness that had gradually frozen his blood.

He remembered everything that caused Sherlock to be taken away from him.

John cracked his neck and looked out of his window.

Damn, he didn't need to be told twice.

 

* * *

 

They arrived at St. Bart's little after 9 pm. Sherlock seemed more jittery then before. He had been texting nervously in the cab, but after the last bit of their conversation, John hadn't felt inclined to ask about anything else. He decided that letting Sherlock work would be the wisest to do. Sherlock had never disappointed him. Well, at least his Work hadn't.

He felt his phone vibrate and took it out of his pocket. Mary's name flashed aggressively on the tiny screen. He lingered in the hallway for a bit, deciding what to do. He felt awful, she would obviously notice that something was wrong, and John didn't want to worry her. Not after so recently having scared her away from him.

He squeezed the plastic, feeling its corners imprint their shape on his fingers. He couldn't run away from her either. He didn't want that, he wanted to be _together_.

Sherlock must have felt his absence, cause he stopped and turned, frowning at him from afar. “Well?” He prompted.

John sighed and decided to stop being a fucking coward. “I'll be there in a bit. You don't need me anyway,” he tried to joke. Just before he turn his back, he could see Sherlock's expression turn into something he couldn't identify.

“Hi, love,” he picked up the phone.

“Hey, hello,” she said. “I was almost giving up! Is this a bad time?”

“No, no, of course not,” he lied. “How are you? How is your friend? Sorry, I forgot her name.”

Mary smiled. John knew she did, she always did when he forgot things. “Kathy! And she is recovering,” she told him, although her tone meant to say that her friend was, indeed, still ill. “And I'm okay. I miss you, though.”

“Oh, yeah?” He smiled. He missed her too. Of course he did. It was impossible not to. Mary had saved him in more ways than anyone could suspect. “I do, too. When are you due to come back?”

She sighed. “I don't know yet,” she sounded dejected. “She doesn't have anyone else. Her parents died when she was very young... Orphans, we keep an eye on each other, you know.”

“I know, love,” he reassured her. He didn't want to sound clingy either. Mary was a loving friend, he admired that in her. “That's okay. Do what you have to do.”

He didn't want to sound relieved. He did miss her. But it didn't change the fact that his head was a mess. His brain felt loose inside his skull. Sodding headache.

“You sound tired. What happened?”

Mary. Sweet, absolutely caring Mary. John had thrown the weight of the world on her shoulders and she was still worried about him being tired.

“Nothing, busy day at work, just that.”

She hummed, unconvinced. John could tell she hadn't believed a word. “Where are you?” She asked.

John looked around and thought about lying, but he felt he had already told enough lies. “I'm at St. Bart's.”

“Oh!” She exclaimed, excited. “Are you two on a case? Is it a good one?”

John laughed forcibly. He didn't want to tell Mary – Mary who still wanted to be a parent – about the child abduction they were dealing with. About the child that now was an orphan like herself.

He couldn't do that, not now when he wouldn't be near to hug her. Not now when the little girl was still in danger.

“Nah,” he dismissed. “Just a robbery. Sherlock was really bored.”

There was noise in the other end of the line, and Mary was in silence for a moment. “I have to go, I'll call you back tomorrow, okay? Love you!”

She hang up before John could answer. He hoped her friend was all right.

_What was her name again?_

 

* * *

 

“You haven't found anything, then?” John asked Sherlock when they sat on the third cab he got that day. His back was already killing him.

Sherlock made a disgusted noise. An unproductive hour at the lab and all his excitement had turned into resentfulness. His asperity warmed John for being so familiar.

“The blood?” He insisted.

“All belonged to the mother, as I have already told you,” the detective said impatiently. “Not a single useful trace in that soil samples. Too many possibilities, too many variables,” he tugged on his hair.

“Have you rechecked everything?”

John knew he was walking a thin line. What was he trying to do, honestly? Sherlock Holmes had never needed to recheck a damn thing in his life. He would jump off a plane without double checking his fucking parachute.

Sherlock squinted his eyes at him. “Tell me, John. How is Mary?”

It would be useless to pretend he hadn't understood. John thought he deserved it. “She is very well, thank you for asking,” he tried to say lightly.

He looked out of his window trying to figure out why had that hurt so much. Sherlock was just naturally cruel. It had never bothered him. Not when directed at him.

Anyway, at least Sherlock hadn't asked _where_ she was, even though he probably knew her flight number.

They spent the rest of the ride in a heavy silence. John didn't know what to say. He didn't know why they kept resenting each other for the smallest things, why now everything felt wrongly wired between them.

The cab pulled over in front of 221B. Surprisingly, Sherlock reached for his wallet and handed John fifty quid. The doctor was too shocked to reject it.

Sherlock didn't leave the cab right away, but kept his grip on the handle. John could see the creases of the leather on his gloves. “You could stay.”

“Sorry?”

“If you don't want to be in your house alone, you could stay. I mean, here,” Sherlock looked sideways at him. “I'm sure Mrs Hudson would be delighted. Would bake you anything you wanted.”

John was shocked into silence. That single verb lit him up from the inside. It was so scary, he felt his hands sweat.

“I–,” the detective cleared his throat. “Goodnight, John.”

Just like that, he jumped out of the car and disappeared inside 221B, not very different from how he had earlier appeared.

On the ride home, John tried to ignore the magnetic pull that threatened to drag him back across the city to something he didn't know if he would ever be ready to face again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the kudos and comments and for sticking to my story! nice (however angsty) things are coming and I'm excited! 
> 
> it took me very long to update this time and I am sorry, but my beta and I were having technical problems.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The doctor looked around him. His new house, his living room, his new life. And then looked at Sherlock standing in front of his door. He wanted Sherlock to come in and erase the line between one thing and the other. It was still too early for John to think too deeply about that. “Come on in,” he called again."

“ _John!”_

The ringing in his ears was loud and piercing. He sat up in bed, panting.

John could not remember exactly what the nightmare had been about, he could only hear Sherlock's unmistakable voice reverberating inside his skull.

After a moment, he was awake enough to realise there was another noise, one that was not originated in his dreams, but was, instead, a very real doorbell. His own insufferable doorbell, which didn't seem to stop _bloody ringing_!

“What the hell?” He muttered to himself, standing up as quickly as he could while still half-asleep. He put on his dressing gown and rushed to the living room, rubbing his face to force himself to wake up properly.

“John!”

Shit, Sherlock.

Dread hit him straight in the gut. What could be happening, for Christ's sake?

He fumbled with the key and opened the door. Sure enough, there was Sherlock in all his coat-scarf-gloves glory, holding a cup of coffee in his left hand and his mobile in his right one.

“Oh, good, you're awake,” he said nonchalantly, typing something on his phone. He didn't bother looking up from the screen.

Bugger.

“I guess one could say that now, yes. What happened?” John could see that nothing serious had happened – at least not anything life threatening. It was just Sherlock being Sherlock. He was torn between punching him in the face and being really glad.

The detective thrustthe cup of coffee in John's general direction so he could type properly on his phone. “They are bringing Michael Pearson for questioning at any moment now, I thought you would like to–”

He dragged his eyes from the screen for a second, and met John's for the first time that morning. His voice faltered for some reason.

John leaned on the door frame fighting the remnants of sleep. His brain was going online again and he couldn't forget that there was a child missing. Without too much thought, he brought the cup of coffee to his lips. It was hot and bitter, exactly how he liked.

He realised that the coffee must have been meant for him all along. Sherlock had brought him coffee. _Was it poisoned?_ He asked himself vaguely while still sipping the liquid.

Sherlock didn't say anything else, so John frowned, fixing his blurry eyes on the man in front of him. Sherlock was staring back at him wide-eyed. His lips parted slightly, but he didn't let out a word. He was looking at John as if he didn't recognize him. It was a bit unnerving.

The detective stammered – actually stammered – and cleared his throat awkwardly. John instinctively stood taller, straightening his shoulders and back.

“What's wrong?” John asked, giving a step forward. His free hand hovered Sherlock's frame without John having given it any permission to do so. Old habits died hard, he supposed.

Sherlock gave a step back. That seemed to bring him out of his stupor, whatever the hell that might have been about. “I–” he fidgeted with the collar of his coat, “Nothing happened, of course.”

John brought his hand down and nodded. He had no idea what had happened. Sherlock just stood there staring at him as if John was some kind of ghost.

“So, the questioning–” John prompted.

“Yes, the questioning,” Sherlock let out a ragged breath. “You coming?”

John signed. He did want to. “I have to go to work, Sherlock,” he cracked his neck. “I don't even know the time of my first patient,” he reasoned wearily. The truth was that he would be much too worried about the missing girl to go to the surgery anyway.

“Not in the first hour, judging by the fact that you were still sleeping,” Sherlock informed him. “It takes you approximately half an hour to get ready to work, but you like to arrive there twenty minutes before the first appointment on your schedule. It takes you twenty minutes to cycle to the surgery, more fifteen minutes to take a shower and change, so if your next patient was early in the day, you would have woken up at–”

“All right, all right,” John help up his hands. “Jesus, just give me a moment!” It was too early for this.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. “Come on, John!”

John might as well give in at once. He had absolutely no chance of resisting a day that started with Sherlock trying to knock his door down. “Come on in, then. I'll be ready in twenty-three and a half minutes, you just wait and see.”

John turned back and waited for Sherlock to follow him.

Only Sherlock was not doing that at all. He could bloody well be a tree for all the moving he was doing, standing exactly where he had stopped after stepping away from John minutes ago. He had that odd expression on his face again, his eyes fixed on John, but his mind lost.

Gradually, his glassy eyes refocused themselves, holding a sudden intensity that John didn't recognize – or maybe he did, but chose to forget. He felt his chest cavity vibrate, could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

Whatever Sherlock was doing to him – consciously or not – it had to stop.

“Are you coming?” John mimicked Sherlock's question. His voice sounded too loud in his own ears.

“I– No,” Sherlock said, putting his hands inside his pockets. His eyes wandered somewhere behind John.

The doctor looked around him. His new house, his living room, his new life. And then looked at Sherlock standing in front of his door. He wanted Sherlock to come in and erase the line between one thing and the other. It was still too early for John to think too deeply about that. “Come on in,” he called again.

“I'll be on the street,” Sherlock said, his jaw line sat stubbornly. But deep in his eyes John could still see traces of the foreign emotion he had seen earlier. He tried to get nearer Sherlock again, but the detective stepped away once more.

“You just woke me to drag me along and now you won't come in? Why?” John's voice came out softer than he had expected and he was glad for it. He didn't want to spook Sherlock.

“I have to make some calls.”

“No, you don't,” John smiled gently, despite himself. “You hate talking on the phone. You will text, and you can do that from my living room,” John countered, fighting against the will to hold his hand out for the man in front of him. For God's sake, they weren't school boys. John didn't know what was happening to them.

“Oh, hello, Doctor Watson!” Mrs Martin, John's neighbour, called to him from across the fence.

John waved his hand and forced a smile, but turned back quickly to look at Sherlock.

It was already too late. The simple interference had dissipated whatever dark cloud that had threatened to burst over their heads.

Sherlock turned abruptly and walked in the direction of the gate. “I'll be waiting, so get on with it, will you?”

 

* * *

 

The cab ride to Scotland Yard was silent. Sherlock kept stealing sideways glances at John, making him fidget in his seat.

He couldn't shake off the foreboding feeling that threatened to strangle him every time he sensed Sherlock was hiding something from him.

Michael Pearson was already being questioned when they got there, which didn't improve Sherlock's dark mood.

Lestrade had the business man and his two lawyers in one of the interrogation rooms. The suspect's speech was the expected: he couldn't understand why the police were harassing him when they should be trying to find Lily.

Lily, the poor six year old who could now be dead by the orders of that very man.

Sally Donovan was watching from behind the glass window in the other room when John and Sherlock joined her.

“I told him not to start without me!” Sherlock complained.

“Did you think you would get in there?” Sally scoffed. “Those lawyers arrived here demanding that their client talk only to the D. I. in charge of the case. I'm surprised they didn't ask for the Chief Superintendent himself,” she continued, not looking pleased about it either. “Money, freak, it can grant you almost anything.”

John stuck his hands in his coat pockets to hide his fists. He would never get used to anyone calling Sherlock a freak. And in John's opinion, Sally still owned them all an apology.

Sherlock's ears were still intent on what was going on in the interrogation room, but he glanced at John for just a moment and it was enough to calm John. They had more pressing matters to worry about.

“I already told you, I had no idea Lily was still in England! Margaret told everyone she was going to a boarding school in France,” Pearson told Lestrade, exasperatedly.

“Tell me again where you were last night,” the D. I. said.

“How many times does my client have to tell you that he was in a meeting?” One of the lawyers, a beautiful woman in a well cut suit, replied. “We have provided you with CCTV images of him arriving at his office and leaving late at night.”

Lestrade smiled charmingly. “We only need your help, Mr Pearson. I'm sure you understand, the victim being your deceased best friend's widow and all.

Michale Pearson seemed suspicious. “And what is that supposed to mean? I already gave all the help I could. You should be doing your job.”

Sherlock grew even more restless, pacing up and down the room. He let out a groan and turned to Sally sharply. “Come on, Sally, I can see the idea of him walking free is eating you up,” he said knowingly. “Let me speak to him.”

Sally eyed Sherlock warily, but didn't deny it. John suspected that she wanted nothing more than to let Sherlock get on with it, first so they could solve the case and second so that they would leave her alone.

In the other room, the questioning didn't seem to be going anywhere.

“What was your relationship with the victim?” Lestrade asked.

“Look, Charles was my best mate at school and at college. We started the company together. My only relationship with Margaret was that she was the widow of my dearest friend,” the man replied, slowly. It sounded rehearsed somehow and John noticed that Sherlock seemed to have picked up on something in the speech.

“So you met her through Charles?” Lestrade asked, unconvinced.

“Of course!” Pearson exclaimed. “I was his best man, I frequented their house while they were married and that was about it,” he said. The looks he kept giving his lawyers spoke of a very different truth.

John had expected the man to be a better liar than that. He had no doubt that he would crack soon or later, but they didn't have any time to waste waiting for it. The missing girl could not wait.

By his side, Sherlock hissed. “For Christ's sake, Sally, he is lying, can't you see?”

John looked at Sally at the other side of the room, and the Sergeant seemed to agree. She had a pained expression on her face, he could see the conflict pouring out of her. After all this time, she had to give it to Sherlock that he was the most sodding brilliant detective around. John liked the feeling.

“What do you know?” She asked Sherlock, still watching intently what was going on in the other room.

“Oh, I know many things. Most important of all, I know how to make him tell us the truth he is so pathetically trying to hide,” Sherlock replied mischievously.

John stepped up. “There's a child missing, Sergeant Donovan. Let him do his job!” He said, angrily. He remembered quite vividly that last time he was on a case with Donovan, she seemed so eager to catch the responsible for the children's kidnapping that she had seen fit to accuse Sherlock.

Sally sighed, but John could see she was already convinced. “I'm going to the loo,” she told them, slowly. “It would be a pity if you just barged in before I could stop you, wouldn't it?”

“Indeed,” Sherlock smiled, but kept his eyes on the other room. He nodded to John once and went out of the room, waiting for Sally to clear out before he could barge in, as she had said.

“I wasn't close to Lily–” Michael Pearson was saying as Sherlock swept inside the interrogation room and dragged a chair so he could sit beside Lestrade.

“Oh, weren't you?” Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes at Pearson.

He seemed so sure of himself that it took the lawyers a moment or two to get their voices back. John felt warm by the image. It was nice not being the only one caught off guard by Sherlock. He couldn't suppress the small smile that fought its way across his lips.

 _Nutter_. Brilliant nutter.

Sherlock didn't give them the time to recover. He took some papers out of his pocket. John frowned at the gesture. It wasn't like Sherlock to bring papers to confrontations with suspects.

“Please, Mr. Pearson, can you tell us about the affair you and Margaret had seven years ago?” Sherlock asked.

“I–”

“You don't have to answer anything, Michael,” one of the lawyers said, harshly.

Pearson crunched his face in confusion, but he wasn't denying it. John could almost seeall the lies he wanted to tell them die in his throat.

_Good luck trying to escape Sherlock's power of observation._

“I have no idea of what you're talking about,” Pearson squealed. His voice that had once sounded so authoritative was now barely more than a whisper.

“Oh,” Sherlock tutted, ironically. “I beg to differ.” He unfolded the papers he had with him and put them on the table. “Can you explain to us why you are the biological father of your best friend's daughter?”

John's jaw dropped. _What the hell?_ He prayed to God that Michael Pearson hadn't kidnapped his daughter on purpose. And by the face the guy was making, John thought he really didn't.

“That's– It's impossible!” Pearson shouted, after restoring some of his voice. He stared at the papers on the table, squirming in his chair. John could now see that they were pictures of Pearson and Lily.

“It isn't,” Sherlock told him. “You see, I talked to a friend of yours and Charles Mills – a friend of yours from Eton,” he inclined his head. John thought he looked a bit manic. “You knew Margaret before Charles. You two had a history. You couldn't let her simply marry your best friend, could you? Did it hurt when she chose him?”

John groaned. Surely Sherlock needn't be such a prick. It simply came naturally to him.

With trembling hands, Pearson ran a hand through his hair. “You have no idea of what you are talking about.”

Sherlock crossed his legs and smiled dangerously. John knew Michael Pearson had absolutely no chance of escaping now. He braced himself for whatever bomb Sherlock was going to throw at the man.

“I already know you are behind the kidnapping, Michael, so, listen to me before going on making a fool of yourself,” the detective said, raising a finger to stop the interruption of one of the lawyers. “You have been pretending since you got here. Your manners are clearly the ones of a man used to wealth and to being obeyed, but your suit is a year old, your shoes are worn off and your watch is a counterfeit. All the articles about you going bankrupt, they are right. So what would be a neat idea of making money – stealing it from your own company without leaving traces? Kidnapping the daughter of your dead partner and keeping the ransom the company would have to pay,” Sherlock rambled. He was probably loving to show off. “And if you found yourself a bit avenged in the meantime, oh, that was just the icing on the cake, wasn't it?”

“No!” Pearson exclaimed.

“My only doubt was if you were cold enough to kidnap your own child. Affairs of the heart, you see, always manage to make the best motives for the most gruesome crimes,” the detective eyed the man intently for a moment, then seemed to understand something else. “You didn't know, did you?”

Pearson had rested his forehead on the metal table and was shaking his head vehemently. “I– I didn't do anything,” he whimpered. “Meg would have told me. Lily can't be... ~~,~~ ” he trailed off.

Sherlock groaned, pointing at the pictures. “Bone structure, the cleft chin, her fingernails. They are all genetic traces of you. Now stop being a coward and tell us who has your daughter! Do you want Lily's death to be on you as well? The last symbol of the love story you and Meg shared?”

Pearson had paled noticeably. John could see that the man had himself poorly under control. As ever, Sherlock had stroke a nerve.

“I–” he gulped. “I never imagined...” he trailed off. He asked for a glass of water and John could see Sherlock getting even more restless. The lawyers had ordered their client not to say anything else, but he seemed a very different man from who he had been when John first saw him in that interrogation room.

John didn't know if he truly regretted what he did, or if the prospect of being responsible for one more death – and the death of his daughter – had been too much on him.

“I will give you their names– anything. Just bring Lily back, _please_ ,” he said between sobs. “I didn't want Margaret's death, it was just about the money!”

John could see in Sherlock's face that the detective was pleased about the outcome, but conflicted about showing it at the moment. He turned his head to the fake mirror and his lips turned up slightly. John smiled back and nodded, even knowing that Sherlock couldn't see him.

 

* * *

 

Lestrade convinced Michael Pearson to set up a meeting with the kidnappers for that same night – just as it was previously arranged between them.

They were outside the house that served as the captivity for Lily. Thermal imaging had shown five men inside the building, so the operation was as discrete as possible. They had set Pearson up with a wire and as soon as he got a glimpse of Lily and she was safe with the police, they would proceed with the arrests.

It seemed a reasonable plan. John kept out of the guys' way, keeping one eye on Pearson and the other on Sherlock, who had already started pacing up and down the street, as if it physically pained him to keep his distance. For once, John was confident in letting the police to its job.

They watched the procedures apprehensively, however. John had become more and more aware of the gun stuck in the back of his jeans. It was a reassurance that whatever the hell might occur, he still had a chance of saving those people around him. He kept close to Sherlock, who grew even more turbulent and started looking for an escape route. John knew him well enough to see that the detective wouldn't give up so easily.

As soon as Sherlock saw himself free from Lestrade's eyes, he slipped through a side street, apparently to try to get to the back door of the building. John thought it was a terrible plan, but they couldn't draw attention to themselves, so he followed Sherlock silently, cursing him in his mind.

 _Damn git._ He was putting himself in the middle of a child's rescue.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, walking fast after Sherlock while he made his way down the street.

Sherlock didn't show any signs of having heard. Of course. He sped up.

Bloody long legs.

Sherlock stopped abruptly in the middle of the street, and looked intently at wall on his left. His eyes lit up and pointed at it.

John walked over to the wall and squinted his eyes to see what Sherlock had been pointing, instantly understanding what it had been about. The bastard had found a third way to get into the house.

John sighed, his back going rigid and alert. The small window was already broken, and there was no way John would be able to convince Sherlock to resist that kind of temptation.

They would do it, all right.

John grabbed a handful of Sherlock's coat, keeping a firm grip on the man and lowered his voice the best he could. “I have no illusion of you seeing this for the stupid idea it is, so we are going in,” he said, taking a deep breath. His captain self had already taken over. He knew that Sherlock was listening to every single word. And he would know very well that John wasn't joking. “But we are doing this my way. And you won't fight me on this. Okay?” The curly haired head gave a stiff nod. “Do you have your gun with you?”

The git had the balls to snort. John understood it for what it was. _Obviously._

“Good,” John replied. “You will stay behind be anyway.” He felt Sherlock's instance change immediately, as he prepared himself to argue. “No,” John said shortly, still keeping a firm grip on Sherlock's coat, not letting the detective step more then a few inches away from him.

John could feel their bodies brushing lightly, his front to Sherlock's back. He chose to ignore it.

“You will do as I say, and you will stay behind me, at least while I check on this cellar, or whatever the hell it is. I will go in first and if it is clear, then you will get in.”

John's heart was jumping up his throat. They had been in a million dangerous situations, but the latest revelations about Sherlock's time away were now floating inside his head. It was just impossible for him not to try to keep Sherlock safe in whatever way he could.

Although visibly vexed, Sherlock acquiesced, and stepped aside, letting John get a clear view of the small broken window. The cellar was completely dark, it was impossible to know how it was connected to the rest of the building. John picked his flash light from his coat pocket and surveyed the room carefully before squeezing himself through the small passage.

He jumped to his feet on the wooden floor. The room smelled old and humid. John walked about it, casting the light in every direction, but keeping it pointed to the floor. It wouldn't do to call attention to themselves. After a few minutes of reconnaissance, John was pleased to know the room was clear. He had found the stairs that led to the levels above, but there wasn't anyone coming down.

Sherlock got in seconds after John gave him his okay. Voices called their attention to the floor above their heads and John kept still, breathing as quietly as he could so the room was silent. The distinct sound of a child's cry made John curse under his breath.

“Calm down,” Sherlock said, hurriedly. “It's time, look,” he pointed to his wrist watch, using his own flash light. “Pearson will be getting to their front door any moment.”

John chose to accept the little reassurance. Lily was alive, at least. They would get to her on time. That was what mattered.

Sherlock walked up the stairs, silently. He turned to John that was following closely. “Skip the next step, it is squeaky.”

John didn't know how Sherlock knew that, but he duly complied.

He took the lead before they stepped through the entrance that led to the floor above. They crouched behind the door, squinting at the movements on the living room. John had a clear view of Lily, sat in a high stool at the other side of the room. Her chin was wobbling and her eyes were shiny with tears. She looked tired and scared – which was perfectly normal in her situation, but he was glad to notice she didn't show any sign of being injured.

Loud voices carried and Sherlock pressed his front against John's back in his urge to listen. John was hyperaware of the detective's breaths near his left ear, but gave himself a shake and concentrated on what was being said instead.

He could hear Pearson’s voice now and could see half of him. He carried the briefcase with the money, looking paler than ever. His strong voice had turned into mere stammers. John could feel the room turn tenser.

Lily jumped out of her stool and in Michael's arms in a heartbeat. John's breath got caught on his throat when he noticed all the men in the room instinctively reach for their guns.

“It's okay, baby, it's going to be okay,” Michael said, holding her in his arms. John cursed him for being a bastard. It was all his fault in the first place.

One of the members of the gang had grabbed the case that contained the money and was apparently counting his profits.

Michael had his back turned to the men in the room – an amateur mistake for which they were all about to pay.

“Kill them,” the leader of the gang said with a smirk.

And promptly, all the hell broke loose.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, guys!  
> Thank you for the kudos and amazing comments!  
> I don't know who you all are, or where you are, but really thank you for the support.  
> Let me know what you think about this chapter. Tell me your thoughts about Sherlock. I miss him, writing John's POV makes my heart break for Sherlock.  
> \--  
> If you haven't read The Winter Soldier (the comic book), please do. It's one of the best things ever.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The decision to jump in front of Sherlock was not a decision per se. Maybe it was muscle memory. Maybe guts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **I know, I disappeared on you, I am sorry.  
> **  
>  I hope you find the chapter worth the wait.

It all happened very fast. 

In the split of second it took John to spring into action, he was hit by the thought that those guys didn't have any idea the police had the building covered. They were probably trying, dumbly, to erase their connection to  Michael . 

The cellar door behind which  he and Sherlock had crouched was placed exactly between Michael and Lily and the five gang members who were scattered around the room.  Before the man  next to Michael  and Lily could fully raise his weapon, John jumped in the middle of the room, shouting to Pearson that he should protect Lily and take cover  on the other side of the room. 

John heard Sherlock breathing steadily by his side and  wondered how natural it felt for Sherlock to aim a gun at another person's head now. 

“Who the hell are you?” One of the criminals shouted. “What the fuck are you doing here?” He reached for his own gun even before he had finished his question.

John's eyes  scanned the room for a way of saving Lily, but their situation wasn't any good. He and Sherlock would only have time to kill two of them before they  themselves were shot, maybe fatally, and that didn't leave a good time window for them to get the girl to safety. 

There wasn't any other way out of there. John would cover them while they ran to the cellar. He might be shot, but it was their best chance. Lily's whimpering somewhere behind him was enough to make him decide. 

Before he could look for a way of letting Sherlock know of the plan without really voicing it, the detective beat him up to it. Of course he had a plan of his own.

“The police are already here, you have no way out,” Sherlock said, and he sounded so unbearably calm that John thought hysterically that his plan might consist of infuriating the criminals into letting them go. 

Sherlock was fucking mad. 

The leader snorted and Sherlock fixed his eyes on him, giving a humourless laugh of his own. “Oh, you still think the police  aren’t aware of the kidnapping?” Sherlock asked, mockingly. He looked sideways at John, but returned his gaze to the sour looking men ahead. “Remember what I said about them not being simple-minded Londoner criminals?”

John cringed internally, but nodded because he knew Sherlock was stalling for time.

“Well, I take it back,” the detective shrugged. “They are as thick as it gets.”

The distinct “click” of a gun being cocked was heard in the room. John doubted Michael or little Lily would be able to recognize the sound, but  he and Sherlock sure as hell could .

“Let's see how funny you think you are with a bullet in your knee,” one of the guys spat and shot in Sherlock's direction. 

The decision  to jump in front of Sherlock was not  a decision per se. Maybe it was muscle memory. Maybe guts. 

The thumping of his heart made him deaf to the bullet that missed them – and it  _did_ miss them for more than a feet. Oh , but he was going to have words with Sherlock about this. Fucking idiot.

And said idiot was...  _grinning_ . Grinning. Bloody lunatic.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, simply, to the man who had shot in their direction.

Before John's brain could work that out, there was a loud bang and the front door came crashing down revealing the  heavily armed Yard team. Lestrade ran in wearing a vest, aiming his own gun  at the leader's head, who still hadn't recovered from the shock of being proved an imbecile in front of his crew.

John's instincts made him move immediately. He crouched in front of Michael and Lily, who held each other tightly and looked like a bundle of limbs in  the back corner of the room. John felt more than heard Sherlock crouch beside him. 

“Are you okay?” John asked Lily, who seemed too shocked to say anything and just nodded, a thick tear rolling down her face. “It's over now, all right?” She nodded again. 

Sally surrounded them and gave a stiff nod. Michael's eyes went wide, but that had been the deal. He too was guilty of everything that had happened. 

“Stay with us for a moment, okay?” John said to Lily, trying to distract her from the scene of Pearson being handcuffed. “Can you stand?”

When she did, John  checked her more closely for injuries. One of the officers handed him over a bottle of water and he offered it to girl, who shook her head. He brushed away the hair that had stuck on her face by her drying tears, and was gifted  with a grateful, but small smile.

She observed the procedures around her wearily. Her shoulders recoiled slightly when a team of paramedics moved to approach her. John reassured them that she was physically fine, so they agreed to give her more time before all the poking and prodding that would have to be done, nonetheless.

Sherlock stood pressed to John's side, which reminded him– 

“What the hell were you thinking?” He tried to whisper to the detective, but wasn't fooled for a second that Lily couldn't hear. 

Sherlock looked at him as if he had grown another head.

“You could have been shot, for God's sake!”

Sherlock snorted arrogantly. “No, I couldn't have. He was short sighted and had a faint tremor on his hand. The hostages were out of immediate danger and I knew he could not kill me.”

John fought the urge to strangle Sherlock right there  and was already planing his trip back to the Yard in the same car as the other man who had also tried to kill Sherlock . He considered for ten seconds before deciding it wasn't really worth it. He could at least do it without  the entire police force as witness es . 

“Well, don't do that again or I'll shoot you myself.”

“You look like Batman,” Lily said, in a trembling voice, startling them both.

John had to make an effort to hear the sentence at all, and the absurdity of what she said didn't make understanding it any easier. He frowned at the girl only to notice she wasn't talking to him. She was looking at Sherlock with nothing less than awe in her little blue eyes and she held one end of his coat loosely in one of her hands. 

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock said. He frowned at her, interested. “A bat?”

“Bat _man_ ,” she corrected him, her voice sounding stronger than before.

“Hm,” he hummed awkwardly. “I have no–”

“He does, doesn't he?” John interjected, giving Sherlock a look for him to play along.

She nodded vehemently. John smiled at her and then at Sherlock, who looked dumbstruck. 

Well, it was an amusing look on him.

“Er... Thanks...?” The detective said, unsure, glancing at John for confirmation that he was doing things right.

“It's the coat, don't you think?” John asked her. He would do anything to take her mind off what had just happened to her. He was almost sure she didn't know about what had happened to her mother yet. His heart tightened painfully in his chest at the thought.

She nodded, but considered Sherlock intently. “And the voice,” she smiled up at him. 

The look on Sherlock's face was worth every bit of this marvellous chat. John looked at her and nodded. “You are absolutely right, you know,” he smiled looking at the detective too. 

“Batman is a smarty pants, too,” she said and promptly looked coy. That was probably an expression her mother didn't let her pronounce freely. 

John snorted. He looked at Sherlock and the detective scowled unconvincingly. Not even he could deny that the girl had grasped his personality perfectly.

“And you,” she eyed John, “You could be Robin,” she said, seeming satisfied.

John squinted his eyes at her dramatically. “Oh, I don't know. I'm more like Alfred,” he told her. 

She thought it through and nodded. “Okay.” But then seemed to remember something important. “Alfred doesn't fight.”

“I'm a younger version of Alfred. I fight. But I also make tea,” John said. It startled him how true that comparison felt.

Next thing he knew Sherlock would be driving around in a car that resembled a tank and Mycroft would be Lucius ,  God help them all. 

Lestrade approached them and it brought John back to the seriousness of the situation. They would have to leave Lily soon. 

“And how are you feeling?” Lestrade said, crouching to speak to Lily. She recoiled from him, her shoulders tensing under John steady hands.

“That's okay,” John said. “He is Gordon,” he encouraged her. 

Lestrade was confused for a moment, but picked up quickly when John mouthed the word  _Batman_ to him and pointed at Sherlock. 

“You are Robin, I suppose?” Lestrade asked John, amused.

“Alfred,” Lily corrected him, and she seemed to feel safer now that the conversation had come back to the previous topic.

“Ah,” the DI smirked. “Of course.” He stood up. “I think _you_ are Robin,” he smiled down and her. “Did you know in one of the comics Robin is a girl?”

She shook her head, seeming interested despite herself. John thanked God for Lestrade.

“It's true! And you were very brave today. You are a very good Robin,” he patted her head. “Can you come with me? You can help me lock all these bad guys away.”

Lily seemed unsure.  She grasped Sherlock's coat more tightly. 

“Don't worry,” Lestrade reassured her. “Batman will be just behind us, okay?”

When John and Sherlock nodded at her,  s he let go of the detective's coat somewhat reluctantly and went with Lestrade.

 

* * *

 

They had been at Scotland Yard for about an hour. 

John waited near the coffee machine while Sherlock talked to Lestrade in a corner. He didn't feel like joining in.

The day sat too heavily on his shoulders. 

They  hadn’t seen Lily at the station yet, what with all their statements and interrogations. From what he had gathered from Lestrade, the police had been expecting a distant cousin of her father to arrive so they could talk to Lily about what had happened. Chances were that the girl wouldn't be staying in England after that, and John couldn't really blame the family for trying to get her as far as they could from all the mayhem that had ended her mother's life.

A sudden commotion snapped John out of his thoughts. From a nearby interrogation room came a devastating sound – a child's cry of despair that clouded everything else around John. 

That was it, then. They had told Lily everything. Barely half a decade in this world and that girl had already suffered one of the most difficult emotional traumas anyone could endure. It made something tug very painfully in John's chest.

He allowed himself to feel it. He sat at a bench and brought his elbows to his knees, concentrating on Lily's screams and sobs. 

He closed his eyes, and sighed. His heart was beating fast and erratically. It was impossible not to remember that he himself had been in a similar position years ago. Never mind he had already known Sherlock was dead, never mind he had neither kicked  n or screamed. Lily was voicing a large part of everything John had felt on that particular day. 

She was a fighter, though. John had been washed over by all the guilt and helplessness that would be like a second skin to him , maybe forever. John had never once voiced his agony like that. And it wasn't because he wasn't a child, but because he had felt too weak even for that.

It was too much. That place, those walls. How many people had suffered inside that building just like little Lily was suffering now? How many people had lost almost everything here, just like John? How many people had been tricked, how many had been left feeling alone in the universe just here?

John rubbed his face and straightened his shoulders, ready to flee. But he couldn't just leave and turn his back on Lily like that. They'd promised her– 

A tall shadow fell over him and he looked up, feeling almost as lost as he had felt the day he watched that coat fly from a rooftop. 

Sherlock's eyes flashed brightly.

He wasn't just looking at John. He wasn't just assessing  him , deducing him. 

John felt  _undone_ . He couldn't think of another word for it.

They held each other's eyes. John liked to believe they were having a silent conversation, even if maybe it was just wishful thinking. 

Sherlock was showing John he was there – John liked to think so. It meant the world to him. 

Sherlock was saying he understood, that he was at least trying. 

Even after stripping John bare of all his defences, after dissolving John, of making him almost into a ghost– 

He was saying again and again that he was there. He must be.

Sherlock in all his immaterial presence. Sherlock, who so many times had seemed to John more like a mirage than a person. Sherlock was there, towering over John, watching over him. 

Maybe as ever.

And Sherlock  _was_ the only thing keeping John together at that moment.

John closed his eyes and accepted it for what it was: a caress, a hand. He jerked his head, indicating that Sherlock should bloody well stay near.

Sherlock gave him a short nod and flopped down on the bench beside him, closer than usual, but not close enough for anyone to notice. Not that any of the officers around would give them a second glance these days. 

They sat for a full minute without speaking before Lily’s Lily's screams had died completely. 

The door of the interrogation room opened and John stood up automatically. Sherlock stood beside him, a comforting weight  by his side, reminding John that he had been given a second chance. 

They were there side by side – and wasn't that the most glorious thing John could have ever wished? 

A thin pale woman was holding Lily's hand, keeping her close, trying to protect her from everything around her. John felt vaguely glad for the gesture. He hoped she was good enough for the girl.

Everybody seemed to be holding their breath, watching them pass by. The room felt charged with sadness and John suspected not even Lestrade, experienced as he was, had been immune to Lily's reaction. 

Suddenly, the woman halted. Lily was trying to let go of her hand, tears leaking numbly from her eyes. 

Finally free, she walked over to John, who was stunned into shock by it and could only sit down again so he could be closer to her. 

She climbed onto his lap silently, and threw her arms over his shoulders, burying her face on his neck. He couldn't do much but hug her back, tightly. 

She  hiccupped , her body shaking with grief. 

“I'm so sorry,” John told her, massaging her back, trying to soothe her. 

But how could anyone soothe that much pain?

“I'm so sorry,” he repeated, his voicing almost cracking. “You are not alone.” 

His eyes wandered to Sherlock's. 

Was it fair the he was so goddamn lucky? 

 

* * *

Sherlock and John sat in silence in the cab, while Scotland Yard got smaller and smaller in the distance. 

John had no idea what time it was; he could not remember the last time he had eaten.

A raw sadness clawed his insides,  like a beast trying to get through.

Not even Sherlock had stayed indifferent to Lily. John reckoned it had been simply impossible to anyone with half a heart. 

The doctor looked sideways at Sherlock, who held himself stiff in his seat. His long fingers grabbed his own knees forcefully , as if he were trying to stop himself from reaching for something. 

“Sherlock...” John trailed off. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know if he wanted to say anything. They didn't talk about feelings, and John was clueless as to what to do.

The look  in Sherlock's eyes resembled the one he  had used to get when he felt overwhelmed by the information in his Mind Palace, as if he had suddenly understood too many things and couldn't handle the data. But there was more to it this time.

John frowned at the utter  _terror_ written in Sherlock's grey eyes. He had seldom seen Sherlock look so devastatingly young and vulnerable like this and it made his throat clog right away.

_How broken were t_ _hey_ _?_ It was the question that never really left John. 

John was broken, all right. He knew that,  and  Sherlock did, too. And Mary, she knew. 

But how broken was  _Sherlock_ ? After destroying the most powerful criminal organization in Europe by himself, after turning his back on the life he loved, after nearly bleeding to death under the Moroccan sun– 

John jumped to the edge of his seat and told the cabbie they had changed the plans. They had to stop somewhere first. He gave his address quickly and sat back comfortably on his seat.

Sherlock looked at John, confused. 

John smiled sheepishly. “Well, I have to pack a bag. I don't think Mrs Hudson has kept my toothbrush all this time.”

The vulnerable look on Sherlock's face made John want to scream. The detective looked disbelieving. John's heart ached with the idea that Sherlock hadn't even considered that John might accept his offer and stay with him at Baker Street.

John could fool himself that it was only for Sherlock's benefit, that he didn't want Sherlock to be alone tonight, but the truth was so much simpler and so much more selfish than that.

John himself ultimately  _needed it_ . Needed him. Keeping Sherlock in his sight was the best reassurance he could get.

He focused his eyes on Sherlock's, trying to do the same thing the detective had done for him earlier. Trying to be everything at once. In the end, John thought it came naturally to them.

“Okay?” He asked.

“I–” Sherlock squinted at him again, deducing. John let him. He had never been able to stop it, anyway.

“Yes,” he nodded. “More than–” he cleared his throat. “Yes.”

 

* * *

 

After taking another detour to buy some Chinese take away , they finally got to Baker Street.

Crossing the threshold of the flat holding a bag was too much.

John was caught off guard by the hush of emotion that it spiked through him. Not only comfort, but all the sadness that became hard to separate from it. It wasn't only the familiar furniture, but  also  how he missed those old traces of his presence here and there decorating Sherlock's life.

The single armchair didn't alarm him anymore – he had forced himself to get used to it – it just left a dull ache in his chest. He tried to ignore both the empty spot in front of the fireplace and the one inside his own heart.

He gave himself a shake and refocused his mind on getting food in his body. He dumped the bag on the couch and followed Sherlock to the kitchen.

They sat in companionable silence. John was warmed by the rare sight of Sherlock eating without being told to. The detective tried to roll his eyes at John – of course he could tell when John was being an insufferable mother hen – but the look on his face was fond. The doctor smiled slightly and continue to dig into his food.

“Mrs Hudson left a pudding for dessert,” Sherlock said between mouthfuls. He pointed to the fridge with his fork.

“No head?” John asked, smirking.

He was sure the smile he received could be described as a bit manic.

“No, but there are ears.”

John groaned dramatically. He would never admit how embraced he felt by the  _Sherlockness_ of that statement. “Ear pudding. Delightful.”

“And eyeballs for tea,” Sherlock added.

John giggled. “Of course, we can’t forget that.”

After eating the dessert – which fortunately was ear-free, thank you very much – John stood up and brought the dishes to the sink. He told himself that he would wash them the next day, hoping that Mrs Hudson didn't burst in and  clean them before he had the chance. 

He stretched his back and moaned at the sensation. 

_God_ , he was getting old. He couldn't wait to take a shower and go to bed.

Oh. 

A bed that he didn't have anymore.

He walked into the living room, eyeing the offending couch. Well, he had slept on it plenty of times before, it had never killed him. It wouldn’t kill him this time.

“Do you have a spare blanket and a pillow?” John said, absent-mindedly, not even sure if Sherlock was in the room. 

After a moment without answer, he turned to look for the detective and found him perched comfortably on his armchair, looking back at John with his brows frowned in confusion.

John sighed. Of course Sherlock wouldn't understand basic human needs. “I'll be needing them, Sherlock, so I can set myself  up  on the couch.”

“The couch,” Sherlock repeated after a moment, tipping his head in a gesture that was as good as any question mark. 

John asked himself hysterically if maybe that had been too much food at once and Sherlock's thought process had been damaged by it. It made him snort stupidly.

“Did you think I would be spending the night awake or am I supposed to sleep on the kitchen table?”

Sherlock scowled at him and rolled his eyes. John just opened his arms, helplessly, showing him the bare couch. Surely Sherlock couldn't be that much of an idiot. 

“You have a bedroom, John, if I am not mistaken,” he said as if John was the daftest creature in the universe. “It's upstairs, in case you have forgotten.”

John felt himself getting angry by the simple mention of it. “And I am supposed to sleep on the floor, am I?”

Sherlock's attitude changed in a heartbeat. His face was soft, somewhat embarrassed. “No,” he cleared his throat. “The bed–  e verything, really–  t he bedroom is ready for use,” he managed dully.

John couldn't mask the bewilderment he felt then. He kept looking to the ceiling as if he would be able to get a clear view of his old bedroom.

“You kept my bedroom,” he said before he could stop himself. It still didn't make any sense to him. 

And okay, maybe it made sense that he hadn't minded John's bedroom – he had hardly any reason to get up there – but it just seemed off. Sherlock took  up as much space as he could get, and John had thought he would jump  at the chance to set up a larger office  for himself, to keep his papers and science junk or whatever the hell he might have been piling up in his bedroom and in the kitchen.

Maybe it had become a guest room. John didn't know if it would do him any good seeing his old bedroom turned into something as cold as  _any bedroom_ .

Sherlock growled, frustrated and it brought John right back from the depths of his own broken mind. “It's your room, John. The one you left, the way you left  it !” He said, loudly, standing up and pacing to the window. “ _'You kept my bedroom!_ '” he mimicked John. “How could you– Of course I kept your bedroom!” His voice had become angry shouts and John was worried they would end up waking Mrs Hudson. 

“ _'Of course?'_ ”he replied. “Look around! I used to have an armchair, a desk, I used to have a lot of things! Things it took you no time to throw away without bothering to –” John stopped short. 

He had absolutely no idea how the fuck they had come to this again. He had to let go. He couldn't keep resenting Sherlock for redecorating, for Christ's sake. He had absolutely no right.

“Without bothering to _what_?” The detective demanded angrily. His figure was being illuminated by the faint light coming from the street, giving him a dramatic aura. 

Of course, even Baker Street worked to Sherlock Holmes' mystique. 

John just felt tired. He had had a fairly terrible day. He had seen a little girl become aware that she had lost her mum, had almost broken down with the reminders of losing Sherlock.

He wanted all that to stop.

“Without bothering to _tell me_ ,” John said, honestly. He was so damn tired of keeping everything inside him. He just wanted some peace and comfort. He lowered his voice and sat on the couch. “I don't expect you to understand this, but those things were important to me. They meant–”

Oh, fuck, they meant so much. They meant so, so much. They meant lazing around during the afternoons without cases and drinking tea while Sherlock played the violin still in his pyjamas. They meant comfortable silence and blogging about their life. 

They meant the best part of John's life, if he was honest to himself. And he was too drained to lie.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “They _mean_ all this. I _know_ ,” he sounded exasperated. 

Of course he knew. Of course he had thrown everything away on purpose. He had tried to delete John from his life, for goodness' sake. 

Of course he knew.

“How can you be so stupid?” Sherlock growled at him. “You have a whole _new_ house – which has absolutely nothing to do with me!”

John was hit by the memory of that morning. God, it felt like ages ago. Sherlock standing awkwardly in front of his door. Sherlock, who had brought him coffee and had made sure John went along to the Yard with him, but who refused vehemently to step into John's new house.

His  _new_ home. Something that shattered the very core of what Sherlock and John used to have. 

And John refused to let himself feel bad about it. It wasn't his fault. He had had to survive, to try to move on. Sherlock would never understand that. Had he expected John to be simply waiting for him? 

_And would he have waited_ _?_ John asked himself. If he had known Sherlock was alive... Would he have just–

But it didn't matter. That was neither here nor now.

“You are right,” John said, rubbing his face. “You are absolutely right. I have no right–”

Sherlock snorted bitterly. “You have every right, that's the worst part, you have every right,” he said, defeated. 

It wasn't fair to  either of them. John had had to move on, it was natural, it was the only possible survival strategy. He wouldn't  have been able to linger at 221B, feeling the weight on his shoulders grow heavier and heavier as Sherlock's scent became fainter and fainter  around the house. 

John couldn't let himself wallow in misery because  there would have come a day when the misery would have become too much and he couldn't – 

“John,” Sherlock's voice pierced through his thoughts. “Your bedroom is still your bedroom. It's not a guest bedroom, or a private lab, or any other stupid rubbish you came up with.” The words sounded heavy in the living room, even though Sherlock's lips had turned slightly up. “Mrs Hudson wouldn't let me hear the end of it otherwise.”

He looked at John and it seemed so sincere. It made John's insides squirm, but he couldn't look away. 

That was something about this place, about 221B, that brought everything to the surface somehow. 

There was a part of them that would never be home anywhere else. 

There was a part of John that would never be home with anyone else. 

It gutted him.

“I'm going to take a shower,” Sherlock said, turning hastily away from John when the silence got unbearable. John just nodded dumbly. 

Alone in the living room, John started walking about, trying to get over what had just happened. He kept stealing glances at the flight of stairs that would take him directly  _back home_ .

He was afraid, of course. For once, he wasn't afraid of the nightmares, he was afraid of the sense of contentment that would grab him by the throat and show him once more how  _his_ all this was. It was deeply unsettling. 

He looked out of the window, letting the view calm him down a bit. His back ached and he felt glad for having a comfortable bed to sleep  in . 

He came to a halt i n front of Sherlock's desk , peeping casually through the papers. He squinted at a sheet of paper that read “Guest List” in Sherlock's familiar scrawl. Sure enough, by the looks of it, it was the guest list of John's wedding. 

John didn't know what to think about that. He ran through the guests on his side of the list and of course the list seemed perfect. Sherlock had remembered everyone – even those John had absolutely no memory of ever telling him about. In another sheet of paper  lying beside this one, Sherlock had drawn circles that represented the tables and the guests were organized with perfect acuity. 

It was heart-warming. In fact, it was more than that. Sherlock had really always cared for him in his own way. 

He returned the papers to where they  had been before, making a mental note  to discuss the list with Sherlock on the next day. It should be fun.

He was about to turn back to the couch to get his bag when a brown envelope caught  his attention. The double take felt unnecessary. He knew quite well what it was.

He took a deep breath and held the manilla envelope in his hands. It wasn't the same one he had seen before. 

He knew it was a new one. A new death threat Sherlock had kept from him.

He refused to think twice before opening it. Sherlock's privacy be damned. He unfolded the square piece of paper. There in newspaper’s headlines clippings and printed words read:

**November Equals deadliest month of Afghan War**

**15/11/2009**

Under these apparently random informations – but they weren't random, they would never be random to John – there was a piece of an official looking document. John's breath got caught in his throat by the wrongness that something so intimate had been exposed like this.

**'Heavy Taliban assault on troops based in Helmand. Bomb and (redacted) snipers. (redacted) casualties. (redacted) injured.'**

Lower still, another official looking document. His eyes fled through it. He knew them by heart. Random words glued  themselves to John's retina s . 

**Gun shot wound to the shoulder.**

**.303 calibre’s fragments retrieved.**

**Infection.**

**Multiple surgeries.**

John gripped the edge of the desk, trying to get air into his lungs. This– 

This was his fucking life. This person didn't have any right– 

At the very bottom of the page, John read:

**2, 4 inches. (But you had already calculated that, didn't you?)**

And John didn't need to be a genius to understand that, really.

Less than two and a half inches  from his heart.

He tried to ignore the fact that his chest cavity felt hollow. He put the envelope hastily back where it had been badly hidden, grabbed his bag from the couch and ran up the stairs by instinct alone. 

He could not bring himself to open his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, you guys, I am so very sorry for going on a hiatus without telling you. It was not planned, you see... Things just got in the way.
> 
> This chapter was a bitch, Archie had to work hard on it, cause my english was a mess. I don't know what happened. It was awful, haha. I rather take a month to post a nice chapter than post a really shitty one. I hope you understand. 
> 
> How have you been? I've been reading and working like crazy. I am also learning russian, which is very exciting. (I'm from Brazil, by the way, hi there, I like learning other languages.)
> 
> It won't take me another month to update again. Things are just getting exciting in this fic!
> 
> Byee
> 
> PS: I'm told this was a very emotional chapter. What did you think? Don't hate me, okay??


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "... the thought was brushed from his mind by the sight of Sherlock perched over his microscope, wearing a grey t-shirt, pyjamas bottoms and his rather old blue dressing gown on top of them.
> 
> For a moment, he could do nothing but stare. Was he ready for this? He asked himself dumbly. Was he ready for the domesticity and everything that came with it? 
> 
> Was he ready to let go of it?"

_Warmth. All he could feel was warmth inside him, and all around him._

John tried to hold on to the feeling that spread through his body, willing his mind to go back offline, to keep itself covered under the dreamy haze.

He could still feel smooth skin under his fingertips and a faint scent that lingered about him.

 _Olfactory memory_ , his unfortunately waking mind supplied. He had never known it worked in dreams too.

The sensations were familiar to him in the same vague and fuzzy way.

He was still able to hear the low humming noise that tickled something in the back of his mind, but he could not for the life of him pinpoint exactly _what_ it was.

John could still feel the slow but steady rhythm of a heartbeat that was not his own. It embraced him, as if this mysterious person were not only still in bed with him, but glued to every inch of his skin.

He felt spellbound to it.

How could some unidentified person have that much power over him?

He felt a pang in his chest at that.

It hadn't been Mary in his dream. He didn't know who it had been, but it hadn't been her, he knew that much.

John held himself still and kept his eyes closed for a moment, trying fruitlessly to go back to the dream and to its feeling of safety and contentment.

He had never had a dream like that. Not even before the army had screwed up his sleeping pattern. Considering the nightmares that clouded his sleep more frequently than not these days, the dream had been a god send. He felt comfortable in a way that he hadn't for a long time.

Forcing himself to finally open his eyes, it wasn't without surprise that John realised that he was at Baker Street, more precisely in the very bedroom he had once thought he would never set foot in again.

He groaned, smashing his face back on the soft pillow. It was _his_ pillow. Sherlock hadn't been joking about everything being the same, but for the smell of freshly washed bedding. He obviously had Mrs Hudson to thank for that.

Running his eyes across the old furniture – an old chest of drawers and the wardrobe – he admitted that the view of the room only helped to maintain the warmth of the dream. The whole room seemed to keep it alive just so John could enjoy it for a bit longer.

He smiled, thanking whatever god might be listening for being back at the flat again. A flat with a bedroom that was his, and a mad detective that could also be considered his, in a way or another.

John frowned. He pushed the former thought aside, crediting it to the peculiar haziness he felt.

He sat up on the bed, still tangled in the sheets. Yawning, he probed his body to come back online for once, knowing that his brain would not be fully functioning until his first cup of tea. He had to go to the surgery today and he needed to get going.

It was only after planting his feet on the floor that bits of reality came crashing into him and he remembered the previous night: Lily and the groping sadness that had taken over him, Sherlock and their argument about John's armchair.

_Had the argument only been about that?_

And he remembered the brown envelope and its revolting contents. John promised himself not to approach the subject with Sherlock – most of all because he had no fucking clue of how to go about that. He was mortified that Sherlock had seen those documents, never mind that he had probably known it all since their first day at Baker Street.

He didn't want to talk about the fact that he was being used as a means to get to Sherlock once more. He didn't think he could find words to properly describe just how sodding _tired_ of this he was. Sherlock already thought sentiment was a simple liability, a weakness amongst normal and petty human beings. John reckoned he didn't need any more proof of that bullshit.

How could he coax Sherlock into sharing what was happening to him if the detective kept being reminded of how a two and a half inches way was such a small distance between John and death?

John was fighting an invisible enemy here. He felt so bloody confused by all that. Who could be so powerful as to lay their hands on those kind of official documents – including his military medical record, for Christ's sake.

It was like they were being threatened by Mycroft's evil twin and wasn't that a terrifying thought.

He also didn't think he could handle another one of Sherlock's lies. Not again.

He gave himself a shake and took a steady breath, already missing his dream wholeheartedly. He had woken up from that glorious feeling to be thrown into his frankly shitty reality.

He sighed, getting to his feet and starting his day.

Half an hour later, ready to go to work, John stepped into the kitchen noticing that the door to the living room was closed. Before he could ask why, the thought was brushed from his mind by the sight of Sherlock perched over his microscope, wearing a grey t-shirt, pyjamas bottoms and his rather old blue dressing gown on top of them.

For a moment, he could do nothing but stare. _Was he ready for this?_ He asked himself dumbly. Was he ready for the domesticity and everything that came with it?

Was he ready to let go of it?

“Morning,” John said, trying to sound pleasant. Sherlock just hummed in response.

It made a smile tug the corner of John's mouth, nonetheless. Sherlock's curly hair went in all directions, which only made his smile wider. He didn't know if he was ready, but he sure as hell valued the fact that he was able to share Sherlock's company like this again.

He made tea and toast for Sherlock as well without bothering to ask if he had already eaten. Of course he hadn't.

John sat himself in front of the detective and picked up the newspaper from the table, revealing the brown envelope Sherlock had clearly been studying before John had got downstairs for breakfast.

 _That was it, then_ , John thought.

They would have another one of those terse talks, or they would shout at each other and one of them would storm out. He was so tired of all those outcomes.

Sherlock cleared his throat with a painful expression on his face. “I wasn't trying to keep it from you,” he said weakly.

And John, for once, chose to believe him. Sherlock wouldn't leave the envelope laying around if he didn't want John to see it. Damn, John would still be in the dark about all this if Sherlock hadn't made the choice of letting him in – as much as Mycroft had allowed him to choose, that was.

John looked up from his mug. “All right.” He was being sincere, if a bit strained. “I want to shoot them in the head,” he admitted, quite at ease with himself.

 _He did want that_.

He had absolutely no humanitarian feelings about someone who was using both Sherlock's and his own emotional and physical scars to have a bit of fun.

Sherlock looked at him, startled. Something in John's gaze must have broken his surprise, however, because when he smiled at John it was full of understanding – as if they hadn't been separated for more than a week in their lives.

“I share your ambitions,” he said, already looking back through his eyepiece.

John continued to peruse the paper, and his eyes flew casually to the date.

_Fuck, when was the last time he had talked to Mary?_

A muffled sound made John freeze in his spot. Sherlock was humming some tune or another, completely absorbed in his experiment.

John's chest felt constricted, as if his heart had gone too swelled for its cavity.

He closed his eyes and focused all his senses on that noise – that accidental noise – that brought back the memory of last night's dream to the front of John's scattered brain.

He didn't need to hear it again. In fact, he had heard that sound a billion times before. It was Sherlock's _content about my science shenanigans_ humming noise, the one John long ago used to associate with quiet mornings and home.

He tried to remember more about the dream because _he had to know_. He couldn't let his own mind hide something that big from him.

Sure enough, he could call up the sensation of Sherlock's skin under his fingertips, as if reminiscence of it had been stored in his epidermis all along. All the times when Sherlock had hurt himself and John had examined him, another dozen times when they had held each other's hands for one reason or other – even running from the police once, just before everything went to hell.

That one time, weeks before, when John had felt the angry scar that now adorned Sherlock's lower back–

John took a shaky breath and opened his eyes, unable to stop himself from staring at Sherlock's face. It was all there. The skin, the humming noise, the musky scent he could identify with his eyes closed. He couldn't believe he had been oblivious to it until now.

John would bet his life that if he were to feel Sherlock's heart through his t-shirt right now, he would feel embraced by the same haziness from that morning.

Who could have been that superlative, if not Sherlock? Who could have held John in such powerful grip even in his dreams?

He felt completely stupid for not having figured it out before, for letting himself be dragged into it. It was unbearably embarrassing.

He forced himself to come back from his thoughts only to realize that Sherlock was staring right back at him.

John tried to mask the wave of panic that threatened to make him run from the flat. He willed himself not to fidget under Sherlock's knowing gaze.

 _Fuck_ , how could one hide anything from Sherlock Holmes? How could John of all people hide this from him?

John continued to stare because he quite frankly did not think he would be able to do much else. He concentrated hard and tried to find out if Sherlock could see right through him.

He squinted at Sherlock's intense gaze.

No, Sherlock couldn't possibly suspect–

Sherlock would never know. He would know something was amiss, but he would never deduce this. This wasn't something one could deduce out of thin air.

“So, did you sleep well?” Sherlock's suddenly asked.

_Oh, shit._

But John could see he was only fishing for clues of what John was hiding.

“I– Yes, very well,” John said, trying to act normal. “You?”

Sherlock waved a hand to dismiss John's question. “Any nightmares?”

And that made John stop to _really look_ at Sherlock. How could he possibly–

Sherlock was looking at John as if he was waiting for a confirmation of some sort. As if John were one of his petri dishes and he was about to take notes. It made John want to giggle.

_God, he was weird._

He then remembered that night weeks ago at Mrs Hudson's. He remembered doing the dishes side by side with Sherlock, and being told by the very man that he had used the violin to smooth John's nightmares.

It made sense. It made so much sense, John was glad he was sitting down. Every one of those things – violin and the memory of smooth skin, the ghost of the humming noise and Sherlock's heartbeat – was making his body turn into jelly.

He gathered up his courage, though, because he was a Captain, for Christ's sake. He wasn't a puppy.

“No nightmares,” he shook his head. His voice came out surprisingly steady. “You played the violin, didn't you?”

His heart was trying to climb up his throat.

“Yep,” Sherlock grinned, making the 'p' pop between his lips.

 _It was only a dream_ , John told himself over and over while he cleaned his teeth and went to work.

 

* * *

 

Riding the tube, John found a seat and fished his phone off his pocket.

He couldn't stop thinking about the damn dream. It made him feel guilty, even though he knew it hadn't been his fault.

John wasn't interested in any of those theories about dreams being the true expression of the heart. He didn't have time for that now.

He shook his head at himself. He had to forget it, never mind that he had felt better than... Hell, better than he could remember ever feeling, if he was honest.

John looked down at his phone and frowned when he noticed it wasn't working. He tried pressing all the buttons and even shook it uselessly making the teenager beside him roll his eyes.

Well, he wasn't that good with technology, all right.

John tried to remember the last time he had charged his phone. He had absolutely no idea. Sighing, he put it back in his pocket.

Mary had probably called him, she must be worried sick about him. For how long had he been walking about London with Sherlock and no phone?

Had he even brought his charger to Baker Street? He couldn't remember. He thought he had, but who knew?

He would send Mary an email the minute he stepped into his office. She was always glued to her smartphone, she would receive it right away.

John forced himself to think about her. The soft curve of her body, the happiness he felt when they embraced in bed, late at night.

It felt hollow and grey in his head, like an ancient picture.

They had been sleeping apart for so long, what with John's nightmares and Mary's absence.

And there he was, having dreams about warmth and contentment and bed with his _best friend_.

_Honestly, what was wrong with him?_

Life had already been too hard on him, he didn't need any more pain nor awkwardness disrupting his relationship with Sherlock, that was for sure.

He would call Mary the minute he stepped inside his office. He would hear her voice and everything would be fine.

 

* * *

 

The day at the surgery passed in a blur.

Three cases of flu and one of ear infection were nothing compared to the excitement of being Sherlock's sidekick – or whatever the press was calling John these days – but he felt glad.

Mary had not picked up when John called the first time. Neither had she picked the second time, nor the third. John had fired an email, explaining that he was staying at Baker Street for some days and that he had been a simpleton for forgetting to charge his phone.

He hadn't received any answer.

The thing about guilt – John thought – was that it made him paranoid.

John had had no control whatsoever over the contents of his dream, but he was pierced by how guilty he felt.

The worst was that he could still remember the intensity. If he closed his eyes for a moment while waiting for his next patient to arrive, he could still feel the buzz in his skin, a happiness so solid he could almost touch it.

If he just let himself–

And that was the problem, wasn't it? _He couldn't_.

He couldn't let his eyes close and his mind wander like that to pale skin and curly hair, quicksilver eyes and smart lips.

It was just too much. And John was only human...

He had closed this door long ago. He couldn't let Sherlock hurt him like that too. It would cripple him.

 

* * *

He walked back from the tube to 221B trying to find a balance between the lingering warmth the dream had left jolting through his mind and the conflict it had awoken inside him.

It was too tempting to let go of the bittersweetness for a minute and just bask in it.

Far from John to assume the role of victim in his life, but he had gone through enough shit in the past years.

There was nothing wrong with wanting a little piece and quiet – even if it had originated in a dream. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept so well, he couldn't remember waking up with a smile on his face for a long time.

And his heart ached thinking about Mary. He was sure he had been happy in countless days waking up beside her, and it gutted him that somehow he couldn't remember any of those days now.

What worried John the most was how comfortable Sherlock felt in his mind – as if he had always belonged there. And, okay, maybe there had been a time when that had been true, but that time was over. It had to be.

Everything in John's life seemed to come back to one curly-haired head and cunning tongue, never mind how long he tried to disentangle himself from them – and oh, hell, there wasn't a pun intended in that, no way. He didn't even want to think about _that_.

The wind ruffled his hair and helped ground him.

It was bordering insane how at ease he felt going back to Baker Street after work, as if his daily routine had never been changed at all. As if all this had not been ripped from him years ago when Sherlock had flung himself from that rooftop.

It was important to remember that.

After so many months of trying to stop the resentment from suffocating him or leading him to kill Sherlock, John had come to a point where he had to force himself to remember what had happened. Not exactly because he had forgotten, but because things hurt in a completely different way now that he had time – and space, since he had been back at the flat for a few days – to reacquaint himself with Sherlock and his – _their_ – life.

It was a dull ache, a sort of physical reminder of how connected John was with it. He reckoned even his body reacted differently when around Sherlock. He was more alert, though less anxious. He could be his captain self again without the fear of scaring Mary or his co-workers. There was a whole part of him that had been so excruciatingly linked to Sherlock Holmes when John had left the army, that it wasn't a surprise that only Sherlock Holmes himself, back from the dead, could awaken it.

And the familiarity in the back of his mind did not let him forget for a minute that, despite everything, he loved this.

_He loved this too much._

So much so that it made him question his own sanity in accepting to be with Sherlock in the flat again when in reality he was preparing to be through with that life for good. He was completely stupid for letting himself fall back to the life he had years ago when he should have been trying to get on his feet again, to get a good balance between his new life and the old one.

What John felt while turning his key in 221B's door was that he was making a mess out of it.

Was he mad for wanting everything back? Wasn't it just sad that he wanted so badly something that he would never have again?

He walked up the stairs calmly, savouring each one of the steps like the ridiculous, soppy idiot he was. The quiet murmuring coming from upstairs pricked John's curiosity, which only grew after the loud laughter that followed.

He frowned, stepping into the kitchen, noticing that the door to the living room was still closed. He kept his steps light and unassuming, and couldn't tell why he was behaving as if he was in a war zone.

He approached the kitchen's door to the living room, trying to make out what was being said. He felt too curious about who Sherlock was amusing. It was not jealousy, of course, just a shadow of estrangement.

There wasn't any other way to go about it, so he stepped out of the kitchen into the hallway again, deciding he would be less creepy if he just opened the door to the living room, as he would do in any normal circumstance.

And what welcomed him in the living room was not at all what he had expected, so it took a moment for him to take everything in.

Straight ahead, John could see... his desk.

Well, a desk that looked like the one he used to have there. It sat right in front of Sherlock's, as if it had never been removed in the first place. He felt silly for how light headed he was by the sight of it. It was just a desk – and a chair – nothing more than old furniture, but still...

Sherlock sat in his armchair, looking at John knowingly. He had probably been expecting John. Damn, he had probably heard John being a creep in the kitchen a moment ago.

Turning his head, John was embraced by the sight of the very thing he had missed the most in the last few days, the only thing that could make his days at Baker Street even better and somewhat worse than they already were.

There, looking comfortable as ever, was his armchair.

It would have been absolutely perfect, if not for the stranger sat rather cosily in it. John held himself against the ridiculous will to haul the man from that spot, to shout at him that he had no right to sit there before John had had the pleasure.

Before John could reassert his possession over it.

 _Good god_ , he sounded insane even to his own self.

He had to get _a fucking grip._

John knew he should say something, knew that he probably looked a bit deranged, frozen in the middle of Sherlock's living room, with his mouth hanging open.

The man gave Sherlock a small smile and raised an eyebrow at him. “Ah, now I know why.” And his tone indicated he was _teasing_ and it sat wrong in John's ears, although he couldn't explain why.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man's words, but kept his gaze intent on John's face. John wanted to smile at him, to thank him for giving his things back – when, really, John didn't have the right to ask for them–

But apparently, the only thing John could do was to try not to drown in Sherlock's eyes. The effort to keep what he was feeling from showing took most of the energy he still had, so he just nodded, keeping his mouth shut.

“Everything all right?” He asked Sherlock, because – reunion with old furniture aside – that was the main reason John accepted to be at Baker Street again, and he didn't have a clue to who that random person was. He could be an assassin for all John knew.

The curve of Sherlock's lips when he smiled inconspicuously at John grounded him, so he told himself to stop behaving like a mad man.

“John Watson,” he offered his hand to the man sitting undeserving on his chair. John pointedly _did not_ tell him to go sit somewhere else, which was a victory in itself. The man stood up and shook his hand firmly, smiling pleasantly.

“Of course, John, I know who you are,” he told John, even though his eyes never left Sherlock. “How could I not?”

John tried to smile at that. It didn't make him feel flattered, just lost, and by god did he hate that feeling.

He looked intently at the man in front of him, who didn't seem capable of taking his eyes off Sherlock. He looked at the detective as if he _liked_ him and – of course, John wanted Sherlock to be valued and liked, but still...

It didn't change the fact that John had no idea of who the hell this was.

He seemed jovial and light in a way John himself hadn't been able to feel since joining the army.

Maybe John was behaving too much like Sherlock, but, fuck, he would be able to swear that this man right in front of him had never seen war in his damn life.

John chastised himself and tried to shut his inner voice. He looked at the man again and was surprised by how blue his eyes were. They had an almost defiant blaze in them.

He looked back at John with an amused smile on his face. John suspected he had been staring way too long. Maybe he had introduced himself and John hadn't even noticed, fucking Christ.

“Sorry, what was that?” John asked, with a self-deprecating smile. As if he needed any more reasons to feel like an idiot today.

The man walked over to Sherlock, who had stood up for no apparent reason. “I'm Victor. Victor Trevor, an old friend of Sherlock's,” he said merrily, patting Sherlock on the back.

_Was his hand lingering there?_

_Why was John noticing that, for Christ's sake?_

He dragged his eyes from where Victor was holding the detective.

“Nice to meet you,” John said, trying to keep the inexplicable distaste out of his voice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so... I know what you are all thinking right now. DO NOT HATE ME, okay. 
> 
> I just wanted to say that this is a Johnlock story. It's a story about their relationship, about how hard it is for them to let go of all the hurt they have experienced in their lives and come to terms with being around each other again. So try to enjoy even the bumps in the road.
> 
> Also, for reference, I know most people work with Tom Hiddleston as their headcanon for Victor Trevor, but I would like to humbly suggest that you think of James McAvoy for Victor Trevor here. Here is a gif that can help you with that:  
> <http://33.media.tumblr.com/0a26c274eea3bd71fbe56f90fe7244c8/tumblr_nb0x9zPam71tfw4aco1_500.gif>
> 
> I will provide you with more visual aid every now and again just because I love them. But yes, he is gorgeous. hahaha
> 
> DO NOT HATE ME. We are sort of halfway through it, we are gonna make it, people. 
> 
> Thank you all for the kudos, for the comments, for being supportive in all the ways you can. It means a lot to me.
> 
> Also, Archie: epidermis. (haha)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Victor Trevor seemed to fit enough. He fitted Sherlock's expensive suits, his public school accent. He even woke up in the middle of the night to answer Sherlock's calls.
> 
> They could be boyfriends, for all John knew."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe you guys should reread the last chapter because it's the development of that same scene?

John  sat on the couch trying to  _be there_ , but he was reeling.

His mind only knew two things. 

First and most important,  Sherlock had brought back John's belongings – and, okay, maybe they weren't John's anymore, but well. And  _what_ did that mean? 

Sherlock had kept all that furniture,  had  probably put it in storage or something. He could have thrown it all away, yet he hadn't. Was he trying to comfort John? It sounded silly, but deep down John knew it was the approach Sherlock would choose. And if it was really that... 

What did it  _mean_ ? 

John  stole  furtive glances at Sherlock . He  didn't want to miss any small gesture, ~~~~ because some of them – or maybe all of them combined – might make John finally understand why. And  e specially why  _now_ .

John turned his head to look at  the man sitting on his armchair – and  _Jesus_ _,_ didn't that make  him an enemy  on principle? 

John had never seen someone look so inside his element around Sherlock. And although he was not really listening intently to anything that what was being said, he was vaguely aware that the guy was a family friend, had known Sherlock all his life – and John was pretty sure those were the actual words that he had heard not over half an hour ago.

John felt like he had been sitting there for at least five years.

He tried to look at the man objectively. 

He wore a bespoke, stylish three-piece suit, and his expensive  cologne made him a strong presence in the room. He had an easy grin that seemed almost out of place  for John , and the most startling blue eyes John had ever seen. 

The guy's eyes –  _Victor Trevor's eyes_ , John's brain finally caught up – were open and  _warm_ . 

Although John already disliked him for reasons he could barely understand, some rational part of him argued that Victor didn't show any signs of being a threat.

_Threat to what exactly?_ John asked himself not for the first time since he had sat down on Sherlock's couch – was it  now _their couch_ again?

He tried to analyse the scene in front of him , and the only thing John could conclude was that those two men were close. Victor's attention seemed entirely focused on Sherlock, and all the jokes that he made where clearly meant to be fond, not hurtful, which was very different from what John was used to. People tended to lash out at Sherlock, paying his harshness evenly.

Where the hell had John been that Sherlock had got himself a new old friend and John hadn't even noticed? Since when had they been this close? Had Victor always been there while John and Sherlock lived together, had Sherlock escaped to see his friend?

Had they been communicating online, had they texted each other three years ago? 

John was suddenly angry with himself for not paying enough attention to what Sherlock and Victor had been saying in the living room. Victor had probably talked about it . Sherlock, though, wouldn't be arsed to let John know anything. 

But when it came down to it, it didn't really matter how they had kept in touch all those years ago. John had at least the guts to admit to himself that the only thing that bloody mattered was if they had kept in touch in the past two years. And he was sure that this information had not been brought up at all.

John wished he could have been angry about his suspicion, but he felt drained, mostly sad .  He looked at both men in front of him and tried very hard not to let his mind wander into guessing territory. He would never be able to deduce their relationship, and how unfair was that?

He gathered all his strength to brush aside thoughts of Sherlock and Victor in touch while Sherlock travelled through Europe bringing down Moriarty's network. He didn't want to think about Sherlock visiting Victor in Paris ( _'I had been living in Paris for the last five years,_ ' this John had heard Victor say;  _'I probably should thank Sherlock for that, he was the one who almost bullied me into learning_ _F_ _rench'_ ).

Looking down at his hands, John noticed they had curled into tight fists. It was a fair physical reaction to the shit his brain had come up with. He took a deep breath and looked back at Sherlock and Victor. The lawyer was looking at Sherlock fondly for reasons John chose not to dwell  on .

_(“I'm just another boring lawyer.”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, Victor, modesty has never suited you.”_

“ _True,” Victor grinned at the detective. “I am just another one of those absolutely brilliant lawyers.”)_

John cleared his throat and knew even before he had refocused his eyes that the sound had been aggressive in the living room. What was he even still doing there? He tried not to wince at the look Sherlock was giving him.

He was probably reading all John's awkwardness in the line of his shoulders. John knew then that Sherlock would know absolutely everything John had just thought and John felt himself go weak with embarrassment – 

_God, if this day could just end!_

He smiled at Victor politely, trying to hide the resentment that  growing inside him. The fact that he was sitting in John's chair only made it harder.

“Pearson was never right in the head,” Trevor was saying. 

_Oh._ Had Sherlock told him about their case, then? And had it been  _their_ case? John didn't know.

His surprise must have shown in his face because Sherlock spoke up.

“Victor was Michael's friend at Eton and Oxford.”

Of course he was.

“Friend is a bit of a stretch,” Victor raised one imperious eyebrow at Sherlock. He did it with a graciousness that John had only seen in one man before. “But yes, John, it was me. One day _someone –_ ” Victor paused, looking pointedly at Sherlock. “Someone wakes me up at one a.m. expecting me to just jump right in and _tell him at once everything I know about Michael Pearson, Charles Mills and Margaret Smith's relationship_ ,” he mimicked Sherlock's voice when in the middle of a case. 

It was a fairly good impression, if John was being honest with himself.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Victor. “Well, it is John's fault. He spoiled me,” his lips quirk ed up.

John did not confirm nor deny that information.

“You were always a spoiled brat,” Victor laughed at him. “It just got really extreme.”

And even if he didn't want it to happen, John snorted. Victor did have a point. 

“As I said, it is your fault,” Sherlock said again, directly to John. As if this weren't the closest to some sort of declaration he had ever come to, at least in front of other people. “You always take my calls,” Sherlock smiled lightly at him.

“Yes, I do,” John gave in, shrugging. He felt spooked by the memory of Sebastian, the obnoxious banker and of being used as a trophy by Sherlock back then. 

It crushed him that this could be the same thing. Was John just something Sherlock paraded when it suited him to show other people that he was capable of maintaining an acquaintance? 

And was he? John asked himself bitterly. Or was John just the most stupid human being on planet Earth?

Victor had got a strange look on his face while watching John and Sherlock's exchange. His eyes went a bit unfocused as if he were thinking hard about something important. 

Victor smiled at Sherlock, but John thought his eyes had something sad in them. “You are two of a kind.”

John was utterly surprised by how badly he wanted to punch Victor right then. What did that look mean? Was it pity? 

Before he could understand it, Victor jumped out of his seat.

“Well, let's get going, shall we?” He said brightly, grabbing his coat from the back of John's chair. “I'm ravenous.”

Sherlock stood, buttoning his jacket and checking himself in the mirror as the vain git he was.

As if he needed it.

It took a moment for John to acknowledge what was happening in front of him. Victor was taking Sherlock out to dinner. 

And where had John been all this time that  _he hadn't known_ – 

But he refused to let his face show how shocked he was. Because that was Sherlock's life and the detective was a grown man, he could bloody well do whatever he wanted, as long as he was safe. 

John held his shoulders  e specially high and watched while Sherlock and Victor got ready to go out. It anguished John, but relieved him in equal measure. He couldn't wait to be alone. He couldn't wait to have the time to  _make sense of all this_ . There he was again, an hour later and still spinning out of control.

“John!” Sherlock said, startling him. 

John sighed. Fuck, he really wanted this sodding day to end. 

“What?” John said, barely looking up from where his eyes had been glued to the coffee table, watching the movement Victor's feet on their carpet from the corner of his eyes.

_Sherlock's carpet._

Mrs Hudson's carpet. The Queen's carpet...

It didn't make any difference!

“What?” He asked again when it took Sherlock too long answer.

The detective watched John like a hawk. 

John was torn between a strange kind of relief it brought to him and the unnerving feeling that Sherlock would see exactly how pathetic John  was being . 

How petty, how broken, how...  _jealous_ .

And, shit, this  wasn't the time for admissions of that kind.

“Aren't you coming?” Sherlock asked him, searchingly. 

“Of course, you are very welcome to join us, John!” Victor smiled at him. John was angry to notice how sincere he sounded. “Good god, I miss Angelo,” Victor groaned, grabbing his case.

And John  _was not_ thinking about how Angelo was Sherlock and John's  _thing_ , he wasn't. He also wasn't thinking about how much of a fucking idiot he was. It was a sodding restaurant for Christ's sake, not a sanctuary. Angelo had other costumers.

Sherlock had other friends. 

_Aren't you coming?_

There wasn't a chance in hell that he was stepping into Angelo's in a party of three.

“Uh- No,” he declined, not explaining further. He honestly didn't think they would mind that much.

“Could you wait here a moment?” John asked, out of blue, startling Sherlock and Victor. Victor frowned, but Sherlock just nodded. 

John turned to the detective. “Phone,” he said.

If Sherlock had been surprised by the request, he didn't show it before picking his phone from his pocket and placing it carefully in John's hand. 

John's phone was still down, but he'd be damned if he would just let Sherlock walk out of Baker Street in the company of a man John had never seen before.

John unlocked the screen – Sherlock had never bothered to change his passcode.

**It's John. Victor Trevor...?** , John typed. He knew Mycroft wouldn't need more than that.

The reply came in less then a full minute.

**It's a friend. The background checked clean. All clear.**

John could have typed back asking for detail on Sherlock, but he knew Mycroft would have his little brother covered.

John handed Sherlock his phone back. 

“Thanks,” Sherlock cleared his throat, awkward and full of something else John was too tired to think about.

“No problem,” John replied. 

_Always_ , he wanted to reply. Because that was it, really. It didn't matter the circumstances, John would always have his back. 

Victor smiled at John as if he knew what John was thinking. Well, maybe he did.

In that moment, not going out to dinner with them was for Sherlock's benefit. He deserved to go out, to step out of their throat-clogging relationship, their life-threatening routine.

Goodbyes exchanged and Victor already walking down the stairs, Sherlock stopped on his way out of the door, turning back to look at John. 

He had  _this look_ on his face, and it made John sick because he was sure Sherlock knew. He knew how pitiful John was.

“Are you sure –” 

“Absolutely,” John said, coldly. “Have to call Mary. She is coming back in the next few days,” he lied.

And for the life of him, he had absolutely no idea where that had come from.

“Oh,” Sherlock frowned. And John could see that Sherlock was surprised. He was probably asking himself how he had missed that information in the wrinkles of John's jacket or something. 

John hated that Sherlock was not his normal cunning self then, that he just stood there looking like he had been slapped – a look that John would know, because he had seen Sherlock be slapped more times than he cared to remember at that moment. 

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” John said, climbing up the stairs to his room without waiting to see Sherlock leave.

 

* * *

 

After taking a shower and putting on his pyjamas, John went to the kitchen to fix something to eat. He was starving, but couldn't be bothered to call for food or – god forbid – go out to eat alone. He decided that toast and beans would have to do and set himself on preparing a strong cup of tea to go along with his meagre dinner.

Finally being able to turn on his phone, John wasn't surprised by the amount of missed calls he had. Mary had left him five voice mails and a dozen texts, although she was not answering any of his calls now. It was frustrating how they kept missing each other. He tried to tell himself that it wasn't his fault, but it was not an easy task. 

The truth was that it had just slipped his mind that he had someone else to answer to these days. And what kind of fiancé  did that make him ?

John sighed , bringing his dinner to the living room. He stopped abruptly, looking warily at his armchair. 

He was a bloody idiot. After all those weeks of whining about it, right now it felt almost alien for him to sit there. 

He turned back to the kitchen, sitting at the table to eat. It would have been too uncomfortable to eat in the living room anyway, John told himself. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that being in his armchair without Sherlock across from him would be worse than not having his armchair back at all. 

His mind kept going back to the memory of Sherlock and Victor going out to dinner together and of how utterly devastated John had felt.

It was just another facet  in his constant instability around the detective, John supposed. Just one more thing he had to keep buried deep down. It was not the first time that the thought of his insides trying to drown him seemed like a good metaphor for his life.

It was tiring, to say the least, to be bound to watch himself all the time, to keep pressure on his wounds so his guts didn't spill all over his feet. 

From the moment he had woken up – all fuzzy and warm because of that dream – things had only gone south.

He hated that. Hated how out of control he felt. He had loved how content he felt in his dream ; it was painfully opposite to how hollow he felt chewing mechanically in their kitchen. The reality was not as smooth and happy as his idiotic dream haze made him feel.

As if the death threats , being back at Baker Street, and forgetting Mary when they were just months from their wedding  weren’t enough , now there was this Victor bloke, showing  up  out of nowhere, fitting in Sherlock's living room as if he had always been there. 

Would Victor be Sherlock's next flatmate? Not that he needed  one , of course. He could probably buy the whole building if Mrs Hudson were up to selling it. 

But then again, Sherlock himself had never needed to share the rent. John had figured that out alone. There was just no way  _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_ could not afford 221B by himself. For some reason – and John had never figured it out – he had preferred to have John's company. 

Well, but that was the past. He could share the flat with whomever he pleased these days. And wasn't that wonderful?

John gave up trying to eat the toast. They felt like barbed wire in his throat. He grabbed his cup of tea and stepped bravely into the living room. 

He would sit in his damn chair,  thank you very much .

He turned on the TV, but kept the volume down. A little moan escaped his mouth. He loved that chair, it was a bit worrisome how much. 

John closed his eyes. He would just pretend he wasn't bothered by the emptiness of the armchair across from him and he would be fine.

“Woo hoo!” A familiar voice called from the kitchen. Mrs Hudson hadn't bothered to knock, and John was glad for it.

“Good evening, Mrs Hudson!” He called from the living room. 

“There you are,” she said, pleasantly, from the kitchen. “What are you doing glooming in there?” She asked. By the sound of it, she was stocking Sherlock's fridge. John heard her tutting. “Are these ears? Honestly, you boys –” 

“Not my fault,” John laughed.

Mrs Hudson finally came to the living room to greet John properly. She turned on the light and looked around the living room and beamed down at him. “That's much better,” she patted him on the shoulder. And John didn't need to ask her what was better, because he knew and he agreed wholeheartedly. That was much, much better.

“Is he working?” She asked, sitting on Sherlock's armchair. John suspected she was the only one with clearance to do that.

“No, he went out to dinner,” John answered. _With a friend_ , he could have said, but didn't.

“Oh,” Mrs Hudson said. “With Victor?” She asked eagerly. Her eyes had something mischievous in them. 

John winced inwardly. Mrs Hudson was on first name basis with Victor.

“Yes, with _Victor_ ,” John nodded, trying to pretend it didn't feel awkward for him to be talking about that. He wanted to ask her a billion things about Victor. Since when was he a regular at Baker Street?

Did he – oh god –  _Did he spend the night?_

“It's good for him to have a friend right now,” Mrs Hudson said, if a bit sadly. 

“It's always good to have a friend,” John conceded. It was good for Sherlock, John knew that, he knew he was being extremely unfair to the whole situation. He just couldn't stop behaving defensively. 

“Yes, that too,” Mrs Hudson sighed. “But he will need one now, John, what with the marriage and everything. It's been hard on him.”

John frowned. “Marriage?” 

Mrs Hudson giggled. “Your marriage, John! Have you forgotten?” She shook his head at him, as if he were a helpless case.

John did feel like one.

“What does my marriage have to do with it?” He asked, harshly. Sherlock was off to have dinner with some bloke and suddenly it was John's fault? 

“Well, you moved on,” Mrs Hudson tutted at him. “And he was gracious about it, but don't let it fool you for a second, it has not been easy for him.” She sighed heavily, looking at John in a way that conveyed all her life experience. “It changes things, marriage. You think you will do the same things and be the same person, but you won't. In a heartbeat everything else is left behind.” 

John refused to agree. It wouldn't be like that. Sherlock and him had overcome a shit ton of things, marriage was nothing compared to that. 

Of course, they were just a ghost of what they had been in those good old days, but still – 

“Isn't that a bit dramatic?” He retorted. “People get married all the time and don't lose their friends. We'll be fine.”

Sherlock was fine. _He was perfect_ , he was having a night out, having fun with his new friend.

“Oh, dear, I don't think other people have the relationship you two have, now, do they? I lost my best friend after my wedding. She left the party early, I never saw her again,” Mrs Hudson smiled sadly. “And it's worse for him, you know how he is. You know how he loves you, really. And now you are marrying someone else, John. He is hurting, I hope you can give him some time to heal.”

Mrs Hudson had never in her life made so little sense, John was sure of that. She had read too many Austen novels, had watched too many soppy movies.

“Sherlock and I have never dated, Mrs Hudson,” John told her, tiredly. For as long as he lived, he would be having this conversation with her.

“Of course not,” she scoffed. “You were married.”

_They were what now?_

John was stunned into silence by that. What the actual fuck.

He opened his mouth to retort, but she just pointed around her at the living room, at his armchair, his desk. 

Apparently she thought that it made some sort of point. It did not. It really did  _not_ . 

“Look, Mrs Hudson,” he started, deciding it was better to just leave it because he was getting dizzy. “Sherlock is fine, he went out to dinner. His friend seems a good bloke, they have been friends for forever, apparently,” John said, trying not to sound resentful. “Everything is fine,” he repeated. 

It's all fine. 

Things were going to be damn fine, John would make sure of it. If only Mrs Hudson stopped talking nonsense at him.

“I hope so, dear,” she smiled kindly at him. “How are the wedding plans?”

It took a few seconds for John to understand that question. 

Mrs Hudson couldn't possibly understand the mess John's head was at that moment, so he didn't even consider telling her about it. 

“Great,” he said, going for an excitement he obviously didn't have in him. 

God, he was just so damn tired of everything. 

“Well, I think I am going to bed, if you don't mind,” he said rather abruptly, standing up and taking his half-finished mug to the kitchen.

“Oh, of course, you must be tired. How was work?” She asked, standing up too.

John smiled at her. It was always nice to have someone take an interest in his day. Sherlock would never ask something as mundane as this.

“It was quiet,” he answered. 

_Boring_ , a voice too much like Sherlock's supplied in his head. 

“Good,” she came up to him and patted his cheek. “Get some rest, John, you look like you need it.”

John held himself against the will to lean into the touch and hug Mrs Hudson for dear life. He was more than forty years old, it was too late to be needing  a motherly cuddle. 

His life was a fucking roller-coaster, yes. But he had to put some sense in it. He had to stop spinning like a bottle at a teenage party and get a hold of himself. 

After Mrs Hudson left, John intended to turn off the lights and head to  bed,  but for a moment he just stood there staring blankly into the room. He rested his back on the wall behind him and sighed, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. 

God, he loved this place. It didn't matter how many hideous things it made him remember – finding a head in the fridge, bullet holes on the walls, facing an empty armchair – they would never erase the good memories he had of it – patching up Sherlock, laughing at Sherlock while he shouted at the TV, searching Sherlock's hair for shards of glass after an experiment gone wrong that ended up in a minor explosion.

And okay, maybe Mrs Hudson had made some bit of sense when she identified what Sherlock and he had had all those years ago as a marriage. He supposed it had been a bit like  that .

They had shared many things. Hell, they had shared almost everything, from bank accounts to meals, from the couch to a cupboard once. John snorted remembering that case. Trust Sherlock to find it reasonable to hide for five hours in a sodding cupboard plastered  to his side,  _of course_ . They were bloody ridiculous.

They were  _two of a kind_ , as Victor had so enigmatically put it. 

They had been, John was sure. It made him desperate how much he wanted that surety back. 

Victor Trevor seemed to fit enough. He fitted Sherlock's expensive suits, his public school accent. He even woke up in the middle of the night to answer Sherlock's calls. 

They could be boyfriends, for all John knew.

And didn't it make an awful amount of sense? Just because John himself had never dated Sherlock, it didn't mean other people wouldn't. Molly was dying to do it, never mind the boyfriend she had now. The Woman, she had been close to – no, not really. John could not picture Irene and  _dating_ in any universe. 

Just because Sherlock had never dated John – and they had  _never_ , not that John had ever, ever let himself dwell on it because fucking Christ he didn't need that kind of pain in his life, please – it didn't mean he wouldn't want to date other people.

Why wouldn't he date rich, smart, easy going, one hundred percent clean of war wounds Victor Trevor?

And why would anyone not date Sherlock?

John was kidding himself. He could think of a hundred reasons why most people in their right minds would never date Sherlock Holmes.

But then again , maybe Victor wasn't most people. 

And John... Well, John simply didn't matter.

The sound of a key in the lock snapped John out of his thoughts.

He stayed there, leaning dumbly on the wall, watching as Sherlock walked inside and hung his coat and scarf. He looked at John and frowned.

“All right?” He asked, unsure.

“Yes,” John cleared his throat, straightening his back and stepping away from the wall. It was so damn good to see Sherlock again, never mind he had left less than two hours ago. “You are back early,” he tried to say it lightly. He was sure he had succeeded, but then this was Sherlock Holmes, the most observant man in the world.

“Ah, well, it's Friday, there are too many people out,” Sherlock made a face, turning his back and going to the kitchen. 

“What's in the bag?” John asked, noticing Sherlock was carrying a plastic bag.

“Have you eaten?” Sherlock asked, without paying any attention to John's question. 

“Yes,” John said defensively, because he didn't want to admit he had felt too drained to go out.

“No, you haven't,” Sherlock said, but it didn't sound harsh, just amused. John looked up at him and the detective pointed at the plate with unfinished toasts and the mug of tea on the counter. 

“What's in the bag?” John asked again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Dinner, obviously,” he said distractedly while walking up and about the kitchen, grabbing a plate and a fork and – god – was that a bottle of wine?

“You just went out to dinner,” John smiled at him. 

“This isn't for me,” he said, while setting the plate. “Angelo insisted, you know how he is.”

Sherlock hadn't just brought John's dinner, he had brought John's favourite ravioli. The ravioli John had not eaten in ages because it was something only Angelo could make and John would never set foot in that restaurant without Sherlock.

John tried not to moan at the sight of the dish, but his mouth watered. 

Sherlock handed John his plate and his glass of wine . He had an almost boyish smile on his face. It was such an unusual look on him, and at the same time it was one of the most beautiful things John had seen in his life. 

Fucking hell, what was he even thinking. 

“Thank you,” he said. _For not lashing out about how incredibly stupid I am_ , he thought.

Before he could sit at the kitchen table, Sherlock interrupted him with a hand on his shoulder.

“No,” he said, a bit louder than necessary. He took away his hand, but John could still the ghost of it on him. “I thought –” he cleared his throat and took a deep breath. John couldn't look away, Sherlock seemed so unlike himself. “How do you feel about the violin?”

John grinned at him. 

John felt  _ecstatic_ about it,  actually .

He grabbed his plate and his glass of wine, and they went to the living room. Sherlock walked straight to where his  sheet music and the violin stood and started preparing himself.

John was transfixed by it; his heart pounded loudly  ~~ on ~~ in his chest. He thought hysterically that if it beat any louder, Sherlock surely would be able to hear it. 

He sat on his armchair then and it felt right.  _Finally_ . After a day of things seeming out of place, he was finally where he should be. He could feel it in his bones.

And it wasn't about the chair, not really. The dim light and the taste of the wine on his tongue gave John enough courage to admit that home had less to do with the furniture  and more to do  with being across  from the very man in front of him. 

And he was some sight, John though, letting the wine mollify him. 

Sherlock took off his shoes and his jacket, which he threw on his armchair. He rolled up his shirt's sleeves to his elbows and popped open his first buttons, showing the white expanse of his neck. 

He could be a model for a painter, John thought idiotically. He was so – 

_Beautiful_ , his mind prompted.

Beautiful, John supposed. It was simple as that. The sight of him playing his violin with his eyes closed and his lips parted softly was just about one of the most erotic things John had ever seen. 

John rested his head back on the chair and forgot everything else, including his food.

And if his mouth went a bit too dry, well... He was blaming it on the wine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I am very tired of apologizing all the time for how lame I am and how I can't even update this properly.  
> I have been a mess lately, depression got the better of me. 
> 
> What have you all been up to?  
> I've been working, staring at walls and jogging to produce endorphins. Trying not to get crazy and all that. Wish me luck.
> 
> Thank you all for the support, you guys are really amazing.  
> I am sorry for being the worst at multichapter fanfics.
> 
> Thanks to Archie for being my beta, yes, but mostly for being my friend, which is even better.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He had to protect Mary, it was the right thing to do, the rational thing to do. But John was ready to admit to himself that his first instinct was to stay with Sherlock, to protect him. Sherlock had become a basic need to John a long time ago. John was too tired to continue lying to himself. He didn't deserve that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Listen, I know, I'm a terrible person. Go to the notes at the end of this chapter to read me rambling apologies and whining.  
> Also: if you find it in your heart, read this chapter before telling me how much you hate me because I've been told it's the best one so far.
> 
> 2) **Quick, but necessary recapitulation:**  
>  (you could read everything again, of course, but here is the outline of what is going on.)
> 
> This story is set after the events of The Empty Hearse.
> 
> John is engaged to Mary, they live together. After a very, very difficult period of time, John and Sherlock have managed to become friends again - even though it's still hard and it still hurts. This story is about John's struggles.
> 
> John was given bits and pieces of information about what has happened with Sherlock while he was away. Too much violence for John's liking. Sherlock was stabbed and left to die in Morocco - he's got a scar to prove it, John has seen it. Mycroft and John have managed to find some common ground and can maybe call each other allies of sorts - maybe.
> 
> The remaking of their friendship included bonding over dinner and crime scenes, as well as a birthday dinner with Mrs Hudson and her sister Mrs Reid, with whom John developed a strong connection, and Mary. They also bonded over wedding plans. Sherlock knows all shades of salmon, thank you very much. Sherlock also attended to a party at John and Mary's house where he met a woman called Janine, who also happens to be Mary's best friend and Sherlock's fan. Imagine that!
> 
> Sherlock has been receiving death threats - or at least John thought so, until the moment he went through some papers he found on Sherlock's desk and discovered that the threats were aimed at the detective. John is at lost. Obviously, Sherlock hasn't shared anything about it. The Holmes brothers have been trying to find who's behind the mysterious envelopes. Or at least John thinks they have. John knows close to nothing, really.
> 
> Currently Mary's been in Ireland helping a friend who fell ill. John doesn't know much about that either. I wonder why?
> 
> Sherlock has a new friend. Actually, he has a new old friend. A bloke called Victor Trevor showed up yesterday at Baker Street and took the detective out to dinner at Angelo's of all places. John chose to stay at Baker Street (where he's been staying since Mary flew to Ireland) trying to enjoy his tea. It wasn't his best moment, but the night ended with a glass of wine and the sweet sound of the violin. John hadn't been happy like that for a long time. He could finally enjoy his armchair again.
> 
> This is the morning after that. And it's bloody important.

A screechy ring woke John from the slumber, the sound leaving him disoriented for a minute. He cursed the person who was calling at the fuck hours of the morning on a Saturday and groaned, pressing the phone to his left ear.

“John Watson,” he said sluggishly, sitting up in bed. He had no idea of what time it was. _Too early_.

“John Watson as in my future husband John Watson, you say?” Mary said, and John could tell she wasn't happy with him. He couldn't blame her. “It is nice of him to answer his bloody phone for once,” she added.

“Hi, Mary,” he said, sheepishly. He rubbed his face and sighed, trying to shake off the sleepiness. He needed all his brain's capacity to have this conversation. “Isn't it a bit early for this?” He asked and winced immediately.

God, of all the sentences he could have chosen to start this conversation...

“Really, John? Is that all you have to say to me?” Mary asked, sounding shocked. John was surprised with himself too, he rarely lashed at her that way.

“'M sorry,” he sighed. Rationally he knew he had absolutely no right to feel spooked, but the truth was that John felt trapped in a way he hated. Hated because he knew he wasn't supposed to feel this way about his future wife. “I just woke up,” he offered as a mean of explanation.

He held his phone with his shoulder and rearranged himself in bed, resting his head on his pillow again. He would at least be comfortable.

“I sent you an email yesterday,” John insisted when Mary didn't sound too keen on forgiving him. “Have you seen it? I tried to call you, you never picked it up either,” he argued, even though he knew he was wrong.

He was trying to mask all guilty and confusion he felt with anger. He didn't know how he could look himself in the mirror doing that to Mary.

He heard her sigh and waited.

“Yes, I saw your email,” she answered. “I was too mad to answer it, though,” she said with a faint smile in her voice. It took some of the weight off John's chest.

“How are you?” He asked, trying hard to focus the conversation on anything other than how much of a crappy significant other he was.

“Oh, you know, homesick,” she said.

And _god_ , it was the worst possible answer; John's heart sank with it. If only he could say as much of himself... How could he say he was homesick if the faint noises of the morning at Baker Street brought down all his defences? How could he feel homesick if maybe home was right where he was?

It was too bloody early for this. He just wanted to go back to sleep.

“John?”

“'M here,” he said, glad when a yawn concealed the strain in his voice. “So, how is your friend?”

“She is fine,” Mary replied, sounding more like herself. “So guess who is going back home tomorrow?”

Shit.

Just great timing.

No time to organize his thoughts, no time to staple all the mess inside him in tiny little boxes and hide. No time to–

“John? Did you just fall asleep?” She asked, amused.

“No, of course not,” John tried to smile. His face was cramping, he could feel. “Tomorrow then?”

Maybe he had heard it wrong.

Not that he hadn't been missing Mary. Of course he had. They shared a life, it was impossible not to miss her presence. She was a great woman, she had saved John, had given him something to look forward to.

He _was_ missing her.

He really just wished he had a bit more _time_.

“Tomorrow,” she answered, sounding hopeful and happy. “God, I can't wait. I've been trying to organize the rest of the wedding preparations from here, but it's been awful. Thank Sherlock for me, will you?”

That name brought John's mind into short circuit.

“Sherlock?” John asked, baffled.

He could practically hear her rolling her eyes through the phone. “Yes, he's been helping me. _Us_. He and Janine have been discussing the table plan. He didn't tell you?”

Of course he bloody didn't.

“No, he didn't. I did see the guest list somewhere. I thought he was just being meddlesome,” he said, trying to sound less panicked. The idea of Janine and Sherlock joining efforts to make John's wedding happen formed a knot in his stomach.

It seemed that everybody had accepted John's fate, except for him.

And how fucked up was that?

“Listen, I have to go,” she said. “I'll be back tomorrow, my flight arrives at 7 pm. Go pick me up, okay? Then we can go back to our house. God, I miss you,” she moaned. “I miss your body, I miss your skin, I miss every little thing about us.”

John closed his eyes, feeling disgusted at himself. There it was: the woman who had accepted to be his companion for life and he was destroying every little thing they had built together.

Being missed and wanted like that, it just served to increase his guilt. He wished he felt it as wholeheartedly as Mary felt. “Tomorrow,” he said instead. He knew Mary would hear it like a promise.

Fuck, it felt like walking down death row.

John put down his phone and looked blankly ahead at the wall in front of him. One day. He had one day to get his shit together.

One day to stop bloody dreaming about Sherlock and Sherlock's skin, Sherlock's voice, Sherlock's violin and _all things Sherlock_. Only a day to disentangle himself from Baker Street yet again.

And why, for god's sake, had he succumbed to it again in the first place? What was he doing here? He felt so stupid for having allowed himself to be dragged in again.

But it hadn't been like that at all, if he was honest with himself. He had volunteered to it, he had needed it back.

The problem of denying a physical need was that the body inevitably would take what it could get. And John had been denying himself that this was the life he wanted since the very moment he had seen Sherlock again.

God, he was completely screwed.

 

* * *

 

John walked down the stairs still thinking about the talk with Mary. He needed to embrace reality again, to resettle himself in his life.

This life – this place where everything was a combination of Sherlock and science and John and happiness, but also so much heartbreak it could fill a teenage romance – all this, he had to leave it behind.

Noise coming from the living room brought John back from his thoughts. Sherlock and Mycroft were already hissing at each other at that ungodly hour in the morning.

As if John had any need of his day getting worse.

He stopped in the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee before facing the most cunning men in England. The brothers were still arguing when the doctor entered the living room.

“You will stay out of this while I try to make up for your stupidity and I won't repeat myself, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. It was crystal clear that it wasn't the first time he was saying those words.

Sherlock sat in his armchair, dressed as pristinely as ever, shoes on and everything. Why the hell he insisted in getting all dressed up this early was something John had never fathomed. Mycroft was sitting in John's chair – he looked somewhat wrinkled and worried; it made something cold set in the pit of John's stomach.

“Fantastic!” Sherlock clapped his hands. “Because I am bored of you telling me things I don't care to hear. If you can excuse us,” he pointed out the door to Mycroft in his best impression of a civilized human being.

John sat on the coffee table, drinking his coffee, watching the brothers as if they were a tennis match. Something in the way they were holding themselves told John that this wasn't just their usual banter.

“This is not one of you _investigations_ ,” Mycroft said, as if the last word pained him. “It is not time to play detective. This isn't Moriarty, obsessed with you and bored literally to death,” he continued. His lips were hard and his voice left no room for argument. At least not to any other human being apart from Sherlock.

“I am not afraid of him!” Sherlock hissed.

It made John sick. He didn't know what was going on, but it never ceased to make him queasy how careless Sherlock could be with his own life.

Mycroft gave a humourless laugh – a piercing sound that made John recoil slightly. The older Holmes leaned forward in John's armchair. His voice was low and dangerous when he spoke again. “You are _terrified_. That is exactly the problem.”

John waited for the denial that would surely come, but for once, Sherlock kept his mouth shut. He didn't seem happy about it, but when he tried to argue, no sound came out of his mouth. It was so very unlike him to develop aphasia in the middle of an argument.

“There is no point in denying it, little brother, not now,” Mycroft continued. He had some smugness about him, but his eyes weren't as hard as they had been before.

“We need to do something, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. His cold mask was slipping off slowly. He sounded more and more like the younger brother he was. John could count on one hand the times he saw Sherlock looking as devastatingly fragile as now. “ _I_ need to do something,” the detective repeated.

John itched to get close to him. It always had that effect on him to be reminded that despite the effort he made, Sherlock was just a man. An extraordinary man, but a man, nonetheless.

“No, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, somewhat sadly. “What you need to do is back off before something worse happens.”

“Worse?” Sherlock's mock laugh sounded hysterical. John stood up and walked to his side. It was the only thing he could do without understanding exactly what the bloody hell was going on. “How can this get any worse? He is done playing with us, Mycroft. I am not his target anymore and you know it!”

 _What_. “What?” John asked dumbly to the room at large. What the fucking hell was–

“John is right here, right now,” Mycroft said, pointing at John's direction with his umbrella without sparing the doctor a mere glance. John felt glad for being acknowledged because he was beginning to think he had become invisible.

Sherlock stared hard back at his brother. “You wouldn't be here if he weren't,” he said angrily.

“You have to stop trying to avenge things that didn't happen. Not everything is a dragon to slay,” Mycroft scoffed.

Sherlock's chest seemed ready to explode. He brought his feet onto his armchair and held his shins tightly. John knew it for what it was: a way to calm down from whatever life trauma Mycroft was throwing at him. If John could only understand what all this was about... For all the claim they made of being a rational breed, the Holmes brothers were the best at talking in riddles.

“Okay, that's enough,” John said to Mycroft. He had no idea what else he could do. At least it distracted him from the urge to rub soothing circles in Sherlock's exposed nape. The man looked right about to shatter out of his skin.

Mycroft ignored John completely and continued to talk to Sherlock. “You will hand me everything you gathered and I will look into it again –”

Sherlock snorted. “Oh, will I?” He raised one eyebrow. “I wasn't aware of that. Are you going to send one of your minions to search my flat?”

“Yes,” Mycroft smiled menacingly. “It's the cocaine thing all over again, isn't it?”

“Mycroft!” John shouted, wrathful, jumping to his feet without even thinking about it. He was ready to punch the older Holmes in the face.

“I am not a teenager anymore, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, simply.

“No, you are right, you are not. You are seven and it's my fault Redbeard is gone.”

The look on the detective's face was too painful for John to bare, he chose to squeeze one of Sherlock's shoulders. He knew Sherlock was being bullied somehow. If he could only understand–

Mycroft got to his feet and straightened his suit. “See, it's always my fault with you,” he sighed tiredly. “If we do not coordinate, Magnussen will crush both of us in a heartbeat and _you_ know it. He already knows how,” the British government said finally looking at John.

After Mycroft had left the flat, John continued to stare at the open door, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Who the fucking hell was Magnussen? The name was vaguely familiar, but–

He looked down at Sherlock, who was staring straight ahead, as if lost in his mind. John squeezed his shoulder once again to call his attention before walking over to stand in front of Sherlock.

“I am going to make some tea and we are going to talk,” he said, firmly. Before Sherlock could even open his mouth to argue, John interrupted. “We are going to talk,” he jerked his head to indicate Sherlock should follow him to the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock sat in front of his microscope watching John walk around the kitchen pouring milk in his mug and grabbing an apple for himself. John could almost feel the stare in the back of his neck. He asked himself which one of them needed the reassurance the most. He felt apprehensive as he always did when Sherlock was nervous for reasons unknown to him.

He put Sherlock's mug in front of the detective and dragged the other chair to his side. This would make it harder to punch Sherlock in the face if it came down to it. He had a lurking feeling that it was the inevitable future.

“You have to tell me,” John said quietly, sipping his tea. He wasn't sure that Sherlock would start the conversation on his own. He still looked shaken.

Sherlock looked sideways at John. His pale eyes were disoriented. His long fingers braced the mug, but he didn't bring it to his lips. “It's better if you stay out of it, John,” he said, stubbornly.

John sighed. It wasn't anything different from what he had been expecting, but for the life of him, he couldn't understand how Sherlock still thought that was possible.

It also made him feel a bit pathetic. Here he was having dreams about Sherlock all around him while the other man couldn't even trust him with this.

“We both know this isn't possible. I am already in it too deep,” John said lightly. Sherlock had absolutely no idea how deep in it John was.

“No, John,” Sherlock shook his head. “I–”

“Sherlock,” John said firmly, but still trying to keep his voice down. “Four years ago was already too late.”

John was well versed in what his therapist called trust issues. It made him sad that Sherlock's trust issues now included him.

Well, he couldn't deny that Sherlock had been the worst betrayal John had ever suffered.

They were a strange pair. They trusted each other in an irrational way, but in reality they kept walking on eggshells.

It was tiresome.

“You have to let go, you know,” John said, also for his own benefit. _We_ have to let go, he wanted to say. They had to stop probing new bruises and nourishing the old ones. “I need to know what _we_ are dealing with,” he said, trusting Sherlock to understand it for what it meant. That they were facing whatever it was together this time.

Sherlock stared at him. John let him, feeling like it was a test he couldn't fail. Then, a moment later, Sherlock's face morphed into something more tired and older than John had ever seen. He finally sipped his tea, closing his eyes and sighing heavily. “What do you wish to know?”

John let his right shoulder brush Sherlock's left arm, providing comfort for them both and smiled faintly. “I want to know everything, Sherlock. So, please,” he said, looking intently at the man beside him. “Tell me _everything_. Who is Magnussen and why is he targeting you? What have you done to piss him off?” John asked. He didn't really voiced it as a compliment, but he was pretty sure Sherlock would take it that way.

 _Git_ , he thought fondly.

“For once, I didn't do anything,” Sherlock smiled self-deprecatingly. “His goal is not me. It's Mycroft.”

John had not been expecting that, but maybe it make some sort of sense. Sherlock had been absorbing the blows aimed at Mycroft for a long time. He had been doing Mycroft's legwork for as long as John could remember.

And if this Magnussen was big enough to go after Mycroft like that, he sure as hell wasn't an amateur.

“So, who is he?” John asked, when Sherlock yet again didn't seem likely to share anything else. “Some kind of Mob leader?”

Sherlock snorted. “He is the British press. Like Mycroft is the British government.”

John raised his eyebrows in alarm. The _British press_ had destroyed too much of him. He forced himself to control his words. “Isn't Rupert Murdoch the British press?” He asked, even though he was almost entirely sure that Sherlock would have no idea who that was.

“Murdoch needed someone to coordinate the illegal surveillance he wanted,” Sherlock answered, surprising John. “I had to make some research about all this press rubbish,” he said defensively, before John could voice his thoughts. “It's been cluttering my mind palace,” he pouted.

John snorted, shaking his head. “So is he Murdoch's evil twin?”

When Sherlock looked back at John then, his eyes were hard.

They were so bloody close. John kept his eyes from wandering to Sherlock's lips.

“Magnussen is the most dangerous man I have ever encountered, John,” he said flatly. “Mycroft is trying to deal with him politically and that would be reason enough for us to be alarmed. But it's not going to work,” he said.

John's heart felt constricted. They had been through a lot, how could Sherlock say this man was the most dangerous? “Worse than Moriarty?” He asked, because that was everything he wished to know.

“Yes.”

John tried to wrap his mind around someone who could be worse than Moriarty for them. Moriarty had strapped John to a bomb, had taken everything John had. “What does he want?”

“He wants Mycroft in his pocket.”

“Okay,” John nodded. If you were in Britain and wanted to obtain power, you should go after the most powerful man inside the British government, it made sense. “So, to get to Mycroft, he went after you,” he said.

John knew this MO. And to go after Sherlock, Magnussen had–

“Pressure points, he calls them, if I am not mistaken,” Sherlock supplied. “He is not only the mind behind several political schemes, he took blackmailing and manipulation to a new level. He will use whatever information he can gather against whomever he sees fit.”

“Okay,” John said again, dumbly. While Sherlock's words seemed well weighted, his voice made something in John's chest tremble. It had a raw quality in it, as if Sherlock were telling something personal about himself.

“An intricate chain of pressure points gives him leverage,” Sherlock swallowed hard. “He is not very different from Mycroft at that.”

“How long have you known this?” John asked, holding his mug of tea for dear life. It kept him from grabbing Sherlock's collar and shaking the bastard until he bloody stopped keeping things from John.

“I –” Sherlock cleared his throat. At least he had the decency of looking apologetic. “A month. Sort of,” he cringed. “My coming back gave him the chance of using Lazarus against us. It's what he has been doing since I got back,” Sherlock looked at John. “Only Magnussen could have gathered that much information about my work. He knew I was alive and he has been waiting all this time to use it against Mycroft.”

“But everybody knows you are back now,” John argued weakly.

“But no one outside a very restricted group of people know every detail of that operation,” Sherlock said. John himself still knew almost to nothing in relation to it. “It wouldn't have been possible if Mycroft hadn't pressed his connections across Europe. It wasn't as easy as he would like me to believe. I know it; Magnussen knows it. Having us in his pocket is his last move to checkmate my brother,” Sherlock said, seeming lost in his thoughts. “But then again Mycroft is the greatest chess player I've ever seen.”

John smiled at Sherlock. He wasn't going to comment on Sherlock's display of admiration towards his brother, but it was a good look on him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't get sidetracked. “This is his final move. He let me get near enough that I know it's him. I have enough to work this like any other case,” he brought his hands to his hair. “But he knows this is what will pressure Mycroft into giving in.”

“I don't understand.”

“Mycroft wants to neutralize him, John. Me,” Sherlock paused, “I want him dead.” It made a chill run through John's spine. “Mycroft and I will never agree on this.”

John breathed deeply, letting the air out through his mouth. He had never seen Sherlock talk about a criminal like that. He knew Magnussen wasn't just any suspect – and okay, maybe Sherlock himself wasn't the same as he was two years ago – but Sherlock wasn't a murderer.

John stood up and paced about the kitchen, willing some of the tension away. He recognized the energy that made his instincts sharpen and his trigger finger itch. However, the idea of Sherlock once more confronting someone so dangerous made John feel conflicted.

He looked at Sherlock then, examining every bit of the face he knew so well. He would do whatever the hell he had to do to keep that man safe. He understood Sherlock's words, he wanted Magnussen dead too, but now wasn't the time for them to fight Mycroft on this.

Because he couldn't–

He couldn't lose everything again.

He sat once more and braced himself for the strenuous argument that would surely follow. He heard Sherlock sigh. John decided to try a different approach.

“How come you have information Mycroft doesn't have?” John asked.

“I have sources,” Sherlock answered, vaguely.

John wasn't fooled for a second; he smiled humourlessly. “Stop bullshitting me. Are you telling me your homeless network is following Magnussen around? Give me a break. How did you manage to get near Magnussen, Sherlock?”

“It was thanks to you. Well, to Mary, actually,” Sherlock said, finally.

“What?”

“Janine,” Sherlock replied. “Mary's friend,” he explained, mistaking John's surprised expression.

“I know who Janine is. Is that why you've been flirting with her?”

“ _Flirting_?” Sherlock asked, bemused, as if he didn't understood the word.Which was completely bollocks since he knew very well what that meant and had used that trick countless times.

“Talking, flirting, whichever,” John said, defensively.

What the fuck. It was a bit too much for him to understand how Mary's friend could be suddenly connected to all this.

“It wasn't random,” Sherlock said, before John could ask. “I was very curious about this person with Irish background who showed an unfathomable interest in me a week after I was knocked unconscious in Ireland. It seemed too much of a coincidence, the universe is rarely so lazy.”

“I knew she worked in the press,” John muttered to himself.

“Not just in the press, John,” Sherlock explained. “She is Magnussen's PA.”

Oh. It didn't make any sense – or maybe it made too much sense and John just couldn't face it yet. “So his PA happens to be what? A Sherlock _fangirl_?”

Sherlock snorted at the word. “It's not his PA who happens to be a fangirl,” he said. John still didn't get it. “She was planted, even though she has no idea. She thinks she is manipulating me into an affair so she can be in the papers and she is clever at that, but she has no idea about the rest.”

“ _Affair_?” John asked, dumbly.

“She doesn't normally tell me anything on our dates, but I can infer Magnussen's movements from her notebook when I stay at her flat, and I can deduce her comings and goings easy enough,” Sherlock said.

“ _Dates_?” John was stuck.

Sherlock continued talking as if John wasn't even there. “I imagine she is going to sell a fake story about our relationship to one paper or another when she finds out I am using her, but I don't think that will matter since she will be using me as well by that point,” he mused. “Anyway, this is of little importance. The thing is that I've been gathering information. I know where he keeps his files. His house has a security vault – very medieval of him,” he observed. Then he seemed to notice that John had been staring blankly at him. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Your _relationship_?” John asked. And he did not sound hysterical, but it was a near thing.

Sherlock frowned in confusion and then scowled. “Is this the only thing you gathered from what I just said?” Sherlock asked exasperated.

“No,” John shook his head. He had heard... Something or other about a medieval dungeon. “But _relationship_?”

“It is useful,” Sherlock explained when it was clear that John wasn't going to let that go.

“Useful? You are doing the same thing Magnussen is! She thinks you like her!” John tried not to sound was wrathful as he felt.

“No, I am not,” the detective said, calmly. He sounded so bloody decent it made John want to punch him in the nose. “She is the one planning on selling our story to the press,” he shrugged. “She is good company,” he mused. “Although I could do without the kissing.”

 _Kissing_? Oh fucking Christ. Since when did Sherlock kiss, for God's sake.

John was not thinking about that.

Did Sherlock kiss Victor? John asked himself deep inside his brain – _really_ deep inside.

And when Sherlock _did_ kiss Victor, did he like it? Would he like it?

 _Shit_ . John had to stop thinking about that _right now_.

“You are using her,” he said, awkwardly, trying to clear his throat. He had to stop spinning. “You shouldn't do that to people who like you,” he sighed. And he wasn't talking about anyone other than Janine _at all_.

Sherlock scoffed. “ _People_ do not like me,” he rolled his eyes. “Fortunately for them,” he snorted, as if John was being the most stupid human being on earth.

“Shut up,” John told him. “Get to the fucking point,” he said angrily. John wasn't fortunate at all. But it wasn't exactly news to him.

Sherlock frowned at him. “You were the one who asked about Janine! I told you it was unimportant,” he scoffed.

Well, it was true. John covered his face with his hands and took a deep breath. This wasn't getting any easier. “You are using her and that's wrong–”

“She is using me just as much,” the detective interjected.

“Yes!” John shouted. “And I hate it, okay?” He slammed his right fist on the table. “Jesus!”

Sherlock using people for his own advantage was not news to John. How could it be? Sherlock had done it to Molly a thousand times. He had done it to Greg and Mrs Hudson, maybe even to John himself. But the idea of Sherlock finding it normal that Janine used him right back, just as Irene had done it, that made John feel queasy.

 _Was he dumb for feeling about Sherlock the way he did?_ he asked himself uselessly.

On his last day at Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes, John was feeling too raw to lie to himself.

He looked sideways at the detective.

God. After everything they had gone through... After all the hurting, the betrayal, after feeling completely undone... There was still a big part of John that wanted to give Sherlock all the love he had.

That realization was a bit like a drill bayoneting his body in two. He hurt all over.

“John?” He heard Sherlock call him, but the sound was distant and blurred.

John was fighting to find the ground under his feet again; it was a curious sensation. After everything he had experienced in the past few days, maybe it should have been obvious, but somehow it came as a surprise to find himself like this.

There had always been a part of John that was _in love_ with Sherlock Holmes. It was a teenage passion in the heart of a fortysomething man and it was ridiculous – John felt as much – but it was manageable. John had been able to keep it in check since the first day they had dinner. It was simple enough. John wasn't a teenager, he could get a hold of himself.

But this right here, this was something else entirely. This was the thing John could not control, the sentiment that had made John stop looking for girlfriends right after Jeanette.

The problem wasn't the part of John that got excited over anything Sherlock did and blogged about it like a fanboy. The real problem – the one that was fucking up his brain right now – was that the rest of John loved Sherlock in a way that couldn't be denied. And god, John would know, because he had tried again and again to do it.

John could keep in check the part of him that wanted to jump Sherlock's bones and kiss him until his lips felt numb. What he couldn't do – and he was getting married, god, he was feeling nauseous – was to stop his heart from clenching at the need to make Sherlock happy, to provide him with whatever he needed. To keep him safe. To show him that he could have so much more than being used, if only he wished to.

 _Shit_. How would John be able to leave this place tomorrow?

“John?” Sherlock called him again, and he sounded alarmed. He touched John hesitantly on the shoulder and John stood up, freeing himself hastily of it. It felt like being scalded.

It was too late for that. Too late for love, at least for them. Sherlock had died, they weren't the same anymore.

John had to at least try to keep together the fragile life he had built for himself.

He poured a glass of water to buy some time. Sherlock was looking at him, devouring every little bit of information he could gather from John's expression. But he was an idiot when dealing with sentiment, he would never know that John...

Well, that John loved him, that he had always–

Fuck. They had other things to worry about, for Christ's sake. Janine, John, Victor, they weren't the point.

John leaned on the counter. “Did Magnussen manipulate Janine into being Mary's friend?” He asked, going back to the subject, trying to ignore the strain in his own voice.

Threats, danger, all this John knew how to deal with.

Sherlock seemed surprised by the sudden question and he stared at John for a moment before replying. “No. He chose her between Mary's friends. Mary is the final link in this chain,” Sherlock cleared his throat. “She is _your_ pressure point. It wraps the path up to Mycroft neatly.”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John groaned. “Mary is travelling about thinking she is safe!”

“She _is_ safe. Mycroft put us all under surveillance. And Magnussen doesn't want us dead. He wants us _scared_ , aware of his presence, like a camera in the corner of a room,” Sherlock explained. John wasn't convinced. As long as Mary were still out of his sight, he wouldn't be convinced she was safe.

“He didn't threaten Mary yet, that's something at least,” John said.

“Indeed, he did not, which is curious. None of the envelopes sent to your place were about her.”

“What?” John let that sink in. “You and Mycroft have been intercepting our mail?” He asked, tiredly. He wanted to feel outraged by it, but he was a bit glad for Mary's sake. “So, the envelopes you didn't let me see–”

“Some of them were addressed to you, yes,” Sherlock nodded.

“But they weren't about Mary,” John said, fitting that information with everything he had learned this morning.

The thing that had made Moriarty the worst nightmare John had ever had was the fact that he had learned not only to use John as leverage to get to Sherlock, but to use Sherlock as a way to make John completely powerless. Moriarty had figured John out even before the doctor himself.

All that epiphany about love... Well, Moriarty had known from the start.

Magnussen must have been observing them for a long time. John remembered the envelope he had seen days ago, the details about his surgery–

“No, they weren't about Mary,” Sherlock confirmed. “He'd mistaken me for your pressure point–”

John snorted. “No, he didn't.” It always mesmerized him how stupid Sherlock could be.

“Yes, he did,” the detective argued.

“My god!” John exclaimed. He wasn't going to have this argument now. If Sherlock still didn't understand how much John cherished what they had then he would never do. And that was that. John had to accept it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John. “It's a chain, John, each one of us is a step to Mycroft. Magnussen planted Janine and she connects all of us. She gave me all the information I needed without even knowing,” he said, standing up and pacing around the kitchen. “I have to do something.”

John breathed deeply. There it was. The moment everything would go south. He braced himself for it. “No, you don't. You will let your brother handle this the way he see fit. For once, stay out of it.”

Sherlock's surprise made his eyes comically wide. “How can you still side with Mycroft after everything I told you?”

“I am not _siding with Mycroft_ , Sherlock,” John replied, feeling himself getting drained by this conversation. “But this is way out of our league. This guy has everything on us. And I bet you don't have much on him, because if that was the case you would have gone after him already.”

The fact that Sherlock didn’t deny it was confirmation enough.

“I can't let him get away with this,” Sherlock argued. For all that he liked saying that he wasn't a hero, he sure as hell was behaving as such.

“So work with Mycroft! You two are the most brilliant minds in England, I doubt even Magnussen can face you two! But if you work against your brother, you will be doing exactly what Magnussen wants!” John said.

“He threatens people for being different,” Sherlock said, quietly. “I can't–”

“I understand, I really do – ” John countered.

“You _really don't_ if you think I should stay here and wait for him to crush me!” Sherlock hissed.

A bubble of anger rose in John's chest. He honestly didn't know why he still surprised himself by how selfish Sherlock could be. “Of course! You, the big hero!The great Sherlock Holmes can't be detained from a puzzle, even if it means–”

Sherlock's expression morphed into something ugly and cold that took John completely by surprise and made him stop mid sentence. He tried to rethink about what he had just said.

“No, listen. I wasn't making fun of it–”

“Now it's very ironic of you to lecture me about being a hero, isn't it? Aren't _you_ our perfect soldier?” He asked, mockingly. And maybe John should have felt hurt by that, but he was too shocked by the bitterness in Sherlock's voice to care.

“I didn't mean to–”

“Of course you didn't!” Sherlock shouted. “Just like Mycroft didn't, minutes ago!”

“I just don't want you to get hurt!” John shouted back at him.

“Oh, yes, because you are also our perfect doctor, aren't you?” Sherlock belittled him. And this time it hurt like hell. Sherlock looked disdainfully at John from where he was standing. “And why would you care?” His voice had a chill in it that John knew well. He just had never heard it directed at him before.

“What?” John asked, dumbly. Sherlock couldn't–

The detective walked slowly over to John. John knew that mask, he knew the cruelty Sherlock used against people who had hurt him.

“Tell me, John, _why_ do you care?” The detective smiled humourlessly. “Aren't you going home in what? Three days, two days...,” he trailed off. “Ah, tomorrow, I see,” he said, analysing John as one of his experiments. Sherlock leaned over John, staring straight into his eyes. “Aren't you going back home to be a hero to your soon-to-be wife, John? Hm?”

He was so close. John was losing himself in the glassy eyes. If he closed the distance between them and sealed his lips to Sherlock's, then the detective would understand why John cared that much. If life were as simple as stealing kisses and living happily ever after, then John would take this moment and never let go of it.

But reality was a bit harder than that.

“She is in danger, she is not like us, she needs me,” John said, quietly. And he didn't think about the implications of what he wasn't saying. He just needed Sherlock to understand.

“Yes, _she_ does! Isn't that wonderful?” Sherlock laughed a painful sound. John could feel the detective's breath on his nose. He wanted to taste it.

John needed to understand what was happening. Sherlock seemed broken and a broken Sherlock was always dangerous, especially to himself. Halfway through their talk John had said something; if he could only undo it, he would. He hated when Sherlock whirled out of control.

John tried to put his hand on Sherlock's arm, but the detective brushed it off immediately.

“I can't leave her now!” John shouted desperately, growing more and more restless by the seconds. “She is caught up in the middle of this mess, I can't abandon her right now, it's too dangerous!”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “This isn't about Magnussen!”

“No, it isn't!” John replied. “Tell me, what is this about?” He stared hard back at Sherlock, meeting him halfway. He'd be damned if he would start feeling intimidated by Sherlock's height now. “What are you asking of me?”

“I am not asking anything of you!”

“Really? Because it looks like you are asking me to come back home,” John gestured between them, pointing the four inches that still separated them.

John hoped to god he had read this right. All this talk about John leaving Baker Street, if it had gutted Sherlock the way it gutted John, then maybe–

Sherlock went very still and looked between them.

“Are you?” John asked breathlessly, because he couldn't keep his mouth shut. Because that day had barely started and he was already tired and sweaty. The clock hadn't showed 9 am and John Watson was already fighting a war. “Sherlock, _what_ are you asking of me?”

“I am not asking anything,” Sherlock said again, his voice still too loud in a room that seemed to be the whole world for them. He was trying to slip back into his stoic mask, John could see. “I am _not_ asking anything!” He said, distancing himself a little, but still too close for John's sanity.

“Good!” John yelled at him. “Because if you were asking me to come back, how the fuck could I ever say no?”

The statement rang between them like an alarm buzz. John hadn't meant to say any of it, but it was all true, he wouldn't take it back, not now.

Sherlock's eyes reminded John of that swimming pool years ago. Just as had happened that night, they made John realize that he would do anything to keep Sherlock safe. _Anything_.

He had to protect Mary, it was the right thing to do, the rational thing to do. But John was ready to admit to himself that his first instinct was to stay with Sherlock, to protect _him._ Sherlock had become a basic need to John a long time ago. John was too tired to continue lying to himself. He didn't deserve that.

And Mary – beautiful, loving Mary – she didn't deserve it either.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, making it sound like a question.

“God, shit,” John covered his face with hands, trying to protect himself from the feeling of Sherlock's face so close to his. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. What the fuck was he even doing, for fuck's sake.

“John–”

# ♫ _ **'Ah-Ah-Ahhhhhhh-Ah, Ah-Ah-Ahhhhhhh-Ah. We come from the land of the ice and snow. From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow'**_ ♫

  
Not any interruption would have been enough to dissipate the thick air between them, but John couldn't ignore this. Sherlock's phone ring was suddenly Led Zeppelin and it was too much.

John tried to laugh but it came out ragged and broken. His chest felt too heavy and he was suddenly glad for the distance Sherlock put between them. Maybe he'd be able to breath normally again. “What is that?” He asked, staring at Sherlock's back while the detective grabbed his phone from the kitchen table.

Sherlock looked back at him with something akin to hysteria on his face. If John weren't too busy trying to breath again, he'd find it endearing. The detective scowled down at the screen. “Victor,” he said, showing it to John. “He must have changed his personal ring.”

Oh. And John didn't feel the air leave his lungs because there wasn't any air in them to begin with, but.

That. _Victor_. John had not forgotten that Victor Trevor existed in this universe. Honestly he hadn't.

Sherlock seemed conflicted between picking up the phone and continuing the conversation, so John decided the matter for him.

“Okay, go ahead,” John said, swallowing hard. He turned his back quickly, leaving the kitchen.

“John? Where are you going?” Sherlock shouted from where he was still standing.

John ran upstairs without looking back. “Shower and change. I'm going out, I need air.”

John didn't know what exactly had happened. He didn't know much of what was going on around him. But what he knew was enough for now.

He loved Sherlock. Fully and completely, with every little ounce of his heart. He had to stop bloody pretending, Victor and Janine be damned.

And the wedding – _shit_ – he had to stop it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *groans*
> 
> listen, I know.  
> I have absolutely no idea of what to say to all of you who have been supporting this story since the beginning (it's been more than a year, for crying out loud!), and I have no idea of what to say to you who have just found this story and is already frustrated by the last date of update.  
> what _can_ I say?  
>  I don't do well with planning ahead, and it just kind of happened that for weeks I was too lazy, then I started to doubt myself, and then I was so ashamed to come back that I refused to even look at my user page here or to open the email linked to my ff.net account. I wish I had some better explanation, but that is basically it.
> 
> It's not lack of plot, I have a thousand ideas for this story. It really isn't. I know exactly where I am going with this, if only I wasn't this much of a piece of shit.  
> *sighs*  
> Other interests got in the way, I became a little scared of the Sherlock fandom, there were changes at work, my anxiety tried to cripple me, yadda yadda yadda.
> 
> I'll try to be better, that's the only thing I can say. If you want to continue reading this story, thank you very very much and leave me a comment cursing me or telling me off or whatever. Just try not to be too mean. 
> 
> I love you all, thank you for the kudos and comments. Come chat with me on tumblr. It's the same url as my username here. I swear I'm not completely mad.  
> I swear I don't lie too much either.
> 
> Last but definitely not least: thanks to Archie because her words after this chapter were amazing. Made me feel good and loved. And made me feel that it was really time to come back.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“No, Harry,” John said more firmly. He needed her to shut the hell up before he lost the nerve to tell her. He gave her a stern look. “This isn't a crush, I–”_
> 
> _God, this was so bloody difficult. To say it out loud for the first time after feeling this for years, after denying and then accepting it and then losing everything... To say it out loud after living through the best and the worst and even then to feel so deeply, so completely. It was embarrassing, it was ridiculous._
> 
> _But most of all, it was the truth. He owed himself that."_

John had no idea of what he was doing there.

He rubbed his thumb on the glass of water and sighed.

It wasn't as if he was  _completely_ avoiding Sherlock.

They had even had dinner the previous night, opting to ignore the elephant in the room that  sat between them both since the previous morning. John had sat in his armchair holding the plate in his hand and willing it not to shake. Sherlock  had  seemed more relaxed than he had in a long time , and John tried to convince himself that it didn’t make any difference if he was the reason or not.

So it wasn't as if they were  _completely_ running from what had happened the day before,  with him  almost spelling out for Sherlock that he wished to come back home...

It wasn't like that.

But John couldn't deny he had gladly accepted Harry's invitation for lunch. It gave him something to do in the hours before he had to pick Mary up at the airport other than  pine after Sherlock.

Never mind it had been years since he last saw her in person – at least since Sherlock had come back from the dead.  John could try to persuade himself that the two weren't correlated, but he knew it would be useless. He could  just imagine Harry's face when she learned that the detective had faked the whole thing.  He had been to afraid to actually face her after everything.

Even if they weren't the most loving siblings, Harry had always been a bit overprotective. Maybe something that came with being the older one. Mycroft definitely showed the same characteristics.

He looked around the  restaurant. There were a few people scattered around, most of them engrossed in their phones . His sister had suggested it and John hadn't put much thought into it, but right now he felt a bit gloomy waiting for her.

John sipped his water lazily, trying not to fidget in his seat. His sister was ten minutes late, but then that was nothing. He tried to give her some credit, even though it was difficult after the many times John had waited uselessly for her.

He stretched his back and neck to dissipate the cloud of thoughts. Harriet was better now. She had apparently put her life together after decades of alcohol abuse and heartbreak, if Facebook could be trusted.

John snorted to himself. What a pathetic excuse for a brother was he that he had to rely on Facebook to know about his sister? And why?

Because he was afraid of  _the talk_ . Harry was terribly fond of talks about feelings – thing s that John chose to ignore most of the time.

Right now, however, even that dreadful talk with sister seemed better than awkwardly tiptoeing around Sherlock  while torn between kissing him and punching him in the face.

Yes, there were still those random moments in which John wanted to punch Sherlock in the face. For leaving, for coming back... Hell, for asking for Mike's mobile phone in the first place!

John squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to groan too loudly. He could already feel the headache he would nurture the whole day.

“Well, you look like shit,” Harry said, throwing herself on the chair across from John and dumping at least half a dozen shopping bags on the one next to her.

Years without seeing each other and this was how she chose to announce herself. Delightful.

John scowled at her. “Nice to see you too, Harry.”

“ Yes, yes, nice to see me,” she dismissed while rearranging herself in her seat. “Wish I could say the same. It's been  _years_ , John!” She tutted at him.

Honest to god, she tutted. It was adolescence all over again. The thought was irksome.

“I know,” he said sincerely. “I've been busy...?” He tried.

Harry snorted and raised an eyebrow at him. She was insufferable like this.

He rolled his eyes. “I'm sorry, alright?”

She looked so smug; John had the irrational feeling he should complain to their mother.

Harriet looked well rested; her skin looked smooth, no trace of the sickly colour she used to have. He could smell her perfume from across the table, nothing like the smell of alcohol that he had come to expect of her after years of being around her worst.

John smiled despite himself. It was a great look on her. “You look good,” he said. And it wasn't exactly fond, but it was a near thing.

She smiled back, eye crinkles and all. She seemed happy. “Flattery will get you places, Johnny, you keep that up,” she giggled and squeezed his hand. “It  _is_ good to see you again. But you  _do_ look like shit . ”  A nd she didn't sound apologetic at all. Damn her.

John sighed. Here they go. He considered what he could say.

“Yes, well,” he cleared his throat. “Bad night.”

“How is Mary?” She asked distractedly while choosing her order.

John wasn't fooled for a second. She might be hiding behind the menu, but he knew she was fishing for something. He wasn't too bothered, though, he knew he had no escape. He didn't know if he wanted one to begin with. It might be good to talk to someone. Not that anything could help John in any way. He  was in love with someone who didn't love him back and a wedding just around the corner. Wedding which he had to cancel  as soon as possible .

His life was  _great_ .

“She's been in Ireland for the past couple of weeks,” he answered vaguely. “I'm picking her at Heathrow tonight, in fact.”

They both placed their orders; John feeling  too exposed without the menu between  him and Harry’s soft eyes . She had beautiful blue eyes, a bit lighter than his own. He couldn't stop another smile from shaping his lips. Harry had been through so much and here she was, beautiful and centred. In the depths of his brain John could admit that he felt a bit proud of her. Not that he had any right to.

“ Travelling about while planning your wedding? Talk about multitasking . ”  S he raised an eyebrow.

John could feel the smile melting off his lips. The mention of the wedding reaffirmed that it would be impossible not to say anything about it. John couldn't sit here across from his sister and lie through his teeth about a ceremony he didn't even want.

Well, he could. But he found that he didn't want  to . Not exactly.

Harry looked at him knowingly. Maybe she didn't know exactly how fucked John was, but she surely knew something was up.

“ I'm waiting,” she said, sipping the water the waiter had just put in front of her. Patience had never been her strong suit.

John let his own shoulders slump down and rubbed his face.  _God_ .

“ I'm so fucked, Harry,” he sighed. It was as good a summary as any.

“Oh, John,” she said, patting his hand. “That is an understatement,” and now she did sound apologetic at least. But not surprised, which, okay.

“You have to talk to her as soon as possible, it's not fair,” she said, looking at him intently. John had absolutely no idea how the fuck she was already giving him advice before he had even told her anything.

“What?” He asked mostly to give himself some time. Yes, he knew, he had to talk to Mary.

Fuck, now that would be a nice conversation.

Harry rolled his eyes at him. “You were never going to marry her, John. We both know that.”

John sputtered at her words. That wasn't true.

“ I was going to marry her, of course I was, I  loved  her!” He defended himself,  realising only after catching the movement on the corner of Harry's mouth that he the past tense had sneaked up on him. Great.

“ Maybe,” Harry hummed. And that was just outrageous, really. How could she possibly …?

“You can't know anything about this, you mainly followed everything via Facebook, it's not a reliable source. You don't know anything about Mary,” he argued.

“No,” she agreed. “I know about you, though,” she said while fixing him with a paralysing stare.

She was fierce. It was good to see her so bright and clear headed. But it was also a bit maddening.

“We're fine!” He insisted. “We  _were_ fine, we were,” and now John didn't know whom he was trying to convince. “But then–”

“Then he came back,” she interjected.

John was speechless. Maybe he looked like a pathetic lovesick puppy to those people who were around Sherlock and him all the time, but Harry had never met the detective. She couldn't know that, for god's sake.

They hadn't seen each other in years, was he really that obvious?

“ C'mon, John,” she smiled. “I know you. All that talk about what - was - his - name after your first tour in the army, are you kidding me?” She laughed. “I'm not the only queer kid in this family.”

John frowned at her. “You remember Sholto?” He was surprised, to say the least. He had never known Harry paid that much attention to him.

“ Sholto, that was his name,” she mused. “Of course I do! You sounded like a kid with  his first crush,” she shook her head. “Embarrassing. What happened to him?”

God, it was so long ago. “He died in combat, Harriet.”

“Oh,” she clasped a hand over her mouth. “John, I'm so sorry. I didn't remember that.”

“It's alright,” he told her, clearing his throat. “It was long ago.”

“I can't believe you had to go through that again, I'm so sorry,” she whispered. She seemed so moved, it was almost too much for John to handle. “I can't believe that lunatic made you go through that again.”

_Ah_ , and there it was. And the worst part was that she had every right to feel outraged on John's behalf.

John himself felt outraged. He had felt so angry for so long. But now he was mollified by the warmth Baker Street  that had settled back under his skin.

“ Yeah, well,” he said awkwardly, drinking his water to push down the lump in his throat. He had mostly been okay about Sherlock's non - death for the last few days, but talking to Harry made everything feel raw. “Sometimes I can't believe it either.”

Harry widened her eyes in surprise. Maybe she had not expected John to be so sincere. Well, he was too tired to pretend.

“And here you are, with another embarrassing crush,” she said. Soft, so soft. John didn't know if it made things easier or not.

“No,” John pushed the denial out of his throat. God, it wasn't a crush. He wished it was.

“Oh, come on, John,” she rolled her eyes, misunderstanding him completely. “Are we back on denial?”

“ _No_ , Harry,” John said more firmly. He needed her to shut the hell up before he lost the  nerve to tell her. He gave her a stern look. “This isn't a crush, I–”

God, this was so bloody difficult. To say it out loud for the first time after feeling this for years, after denying and then accepting it and then losing everything...  To s ay it out loud after living  through  the best and the worst and even then to feel so deeply, so completely. It was embarrassing, it was ridiculous.

But most of all, it was the truth. He owed  himself that. He owed Mary that. God, he owed Mary so much.

“ I can say it if you think it's going to make it easier . Y ou can just nod along, you know,” Harry tried to joke. She had  a  sympathetic expression on her face , and John felt so fragile. He wasn't used to that. He was too old to get used to that now.

He squared his shoulders and breathed deeply letting the air out through his mouth. It was no use pretending that it wasn't there anymore. That ship had sailed.

“I'm calling the wedding off. I can't,” he trailed off. “I can't marry someone else.”

Harry was tense in her seat. She laughed breathlessly. “Fuck me! Are you taking him as your spouse, then?”

_What_ .

“ What? I–No,” he shook his head. She was smiling at him with a knowing look. Oh god, she thought she knew, she thought his love was requited . She didn't know the  extent of John's stupidity. “I'm not marrying anyone! I'm spending the rest of my days picking up after a grown man who faked his death and came waltzing back into my life as if nothing had happened, Harry!” The words rushed out of his mouth leaving a sour taste on his tongue. Her smile slipped off her face completely. Well, he could relate. “A man who doesn't feel the same way about me, maybe doesn't feel like that at all. Or maybe he has a boyfriend. It's a possibility now, who knows?”

John rubbed his face and snorted at himself. Yes, he did sound more stupid out loud. He should have kept all that in his head. Some things just didn't belong on the other side of his vocal chords. Some phrases should be kept behind his tonsils.

_God, he didn't even have tonsils anymore._

Harry was still gaping at him.

“Stop doing that, you look like a fish,” he said.

“Well, fuck me,” she said again, as unhelpful as Harry ever was.

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, there you go. Thought you'd like to know the whole drama.” He was getting restless and snippy and he knew it. It didn't make any sense to close off right now, though. He had accepted to meet, he had wanted it. Maybe it had been a mistake, but it wasn't her fault.

Fortunately the waiter chose that moment to bring their food. John didn't really know how he would swallow it around the lump in his throat, but he was glad for the distraction.

Harry kept stealing glances at him through the whole meal. It should have made him feel worse but it served as a source of comfort. It was all out in the open now, there was no taking it back or laughing it off, there was no counting on Harry's lack of sobriety to forget about it.

“ I'm so proud of you, John,” she said kindly. “I know how hard it is for you to talk about this. Also, you know, there's the whole  _penis situation_ thing. I'm sure you have thought about it,” she joked.

John rolled his eyes again, washing down the chicken with a sip of water. “There isn't a closet to come out of, Harry.”

“Aw,” she pouted. “You're already raining on the parade I was going to throw you. Spoilsport!”

“ The  _penis situation_ ,” he quoted. He couldn't believe his sister was almost fifty years old. Who the hell talked like that? “doesn't matter. It never did, I guess . ”  H e shrugged. “It is what it is.”

She nodded.  She understood.

That had never been a problem to John, contrary to the belief of some people around him. He was always shouting about how he wasn't gay – and he wasn't – when people assumed things about Sherlock and him because it was easier, but it just served as an emotional barrier.

“Well, I'm proud of you for the other stuff too,” she smiled at him, stabbing a baby carrot with her fork and munching it thoughtfully. “What happens now? Do you know?”

“ No,” he admitted quietly. He didn't. He'd stick to Mary until Magnussen had been stopped , b ut then what?  John wasn't even sure about what to do. Would distance himself from Mary completely be better for her safety?

Did Sherlock even want  him back at Baker Street? He had never said so.

Well, fuck him, John was as entitled to a place under that roof as Sherlock himself.

“I'm hoping to go back home after I sort things out with Mary,” John continued after a long moment, choosing to ignore how the word had come out of his mouth so naturally, as if it had been sleeping between his teeth for the past few months.

Also, to  _sort things out_ was a nice way of putting it. Nice euphemism for 'break the heart of the person who gave herself completely to me, who agreed  to be my partner'. He would do that and then go back  _home_ as if nothing had happened.

He  felt  so guilty. John wasn't used to that either. As much as it embarrassed him to admit, he was used to saving  people, not  being  the reason they fell apart. God, Mary didn't deserve what John was about to do. How would he meet her and pretend that he was still on board for the wedding?

“Hey,” Harry offered her hand to him. He took it gladly. “It's terrible and I know you're feeling guilty, John, but it's the right thing to do. She doesn't deserve to be with a person who doesn't love her as much as she loves them, I'm sure you know that.”

“It's not that I don't love her,” he rushed to say it. And he didn't know why he did it. In some way, he was still trying to save at least something of the memory of what they had. “She is lovely, she is an amazing woman, Harry.”

Harry sighed. “I know, Johnny, but  that  isn't reason enough to marry someone.”

“I know.”

“I'm glad you finally admitted it to yourself,” she said and her tone was much more serious than it had been until now. “It was bloody time.”

John just raised an eyebrow.

“ Yes, I might not like him,” she admitted. “But it doesn't really make any difference for you, does it?” She eyed him purposefully. “You have this glint in your eyes when  you think about  him, John, I have seen it. Sometimes it's visible even through your blog, that's how strong it is,” she gave him a small smile. “I don't know about other people, but I met young John, I know how he looks. I know happy , careless John, and  he  was never  with  Mary.”

Her words hit John straight in the chest. Breathing became difficult. He didn't know what to say to her. She was right, he knew that now.

It was too much. To think about how John had lost all this years ago and  how  he had won everything back again. And he didn't want to think that Mary had never stood a chance, it wasn't fair, but at the same time–

“I'm not saying you wouldn't have been happy with her if things were different. If Sherlock had really, you know–” she stopped herself. “But from the moment he came back, I was waiting for you to realise this. I couldn't even help Mary with the preparations. And I wish I could say I'm sorry, but I'm not.”

“ I didn't even know you talked to her,” John said. But then again Mary was planning  his wedding with Sherlock's help and he hadn't known that either. Jesus...

“ Well, Facebook is helpful sometimes,” Harry said vaguely. “She tried to involve me in the wedding preparations, thought I might be of some help , and that she could bring us together . ”  S he snorted a bit sadly. “I couldn't do it.”

John sat there for a moment picking at the  remainder  of his food dejectedly. He asked himself if Mary had ever considered it, if she had ever suspected anything. He didn't know what would be worse, to take her completely by surprise or to be told that she knew she was going to lose him all along. His head was heavy while this thoughts banged at the insides of his skull. God, he needed to sleep for a week.

“Do you need a place to stay while you put your head together?” Harry asked.

He smiled at her gratefully. He found he was actually really glad he had  agreed  to meet his sister after so long. It was still weird being this close to someone who had been distant for a good part of his life, but maybe blood simply couldn't be denied.

“I don't know,” he sighed. Maybe it could have been a great idea, but on the top of it all, they still had to deal with the death threats. He couldn't simply dump Mary and run away from their flat.

God, their flat. Their furniture, their cups and teaspoons. Their bathroom, their bed! John was metaphorically setting it all on fire. How could he have been so stupid? They were just a couple of months away of their wedding and here he was ,  ready to send it all to hell.

“You can stay at my place for as long as you like, Johnny,” Harry continued, setting her plate aside. “It's empty anyway. You'd have all the space to yourself.”

“Oh?” John frowned. “Have you moved in with...” He cringed. He didn't even know Harry's girlfriend's name.

Harry watched him struggle for a moment. John would swear she took some pleasure in it. “ Kat ,” she finally said, smiling a little.

“Right, Kat. So, have you?”

“Not exactly. We are moving, though,” she said, vaguely, smirking a little. She was insufferable sometimes.

“ Come off it, what are you hiding?” He laughed. “I know you, you have that  mischievous air about you!”

She giggled, fidgeting with her hair that was held high in a bun. “We are moving to Australia!”

“What?” He asked, surprised. “Right now?!”

Harry laughed and John could tell she was giddy to tell him about it. She seemed happy with their plans, so he chose not to dwell on the fact that he had just  reconnected with his sister  and she was already fucking off to god  knew  where in Australia.

“ Well,  Kat received a great job offer in a fashion magazine in Sydney. It's her dream job, she was so happy about it, John,” she smiled sweetly. “It wasn't even a matter of  _if_ I would join her, it was mostly a matter of  _when can we leave_ , you know?”

He nodded. “She tells you to jump, you ask how high,” he said. It would be a bit hypocritical of him to say he didn't understand. The last few years of his life had been nothing but following Sherlock.

“ Yeah,” she sighed. “What we have–” she stopped herself, contemplating what to say. “I never had the chance of this kind of relationship with anyone. I have  it  now, I am living  it  now,” she smiled. “I'm not fucking this up.”

John was a bit entranced by how happy Harry was. She had a glow about her that made John yearn for that kind of happiness, that kind of partnership.

Harry's words resonated in his head, filling his chest with a bittersweet sense of security.  _It was never Mary_ .

“Oi, you bloody tit, are you listening to me?” Harry asked, swatting his hand playfully. “Can you stop having a moment cause it's my time to shine here?”

John grinned at her. “You sur e are shining.”

“I am,” she nodded, proudly. “Stupidly in love and all that jazz, Johnny. It's amazing!”

“I'm happy for you, Harry,” he smiled at her sincerely. “You deserve this. When will I meet this person who is stealing you away from England?”

She giggled. “Oh, I'm sure our Queen understands,” she said, taking her phone out of her purse. “Here,” she said, turning the screen towards John. “This is her. Unfortunately, this is the only way you can meet her for now, she is already in Sydney,” she handed the phone to John and gestured him to keep scrolling through the pictures. “That is our place there. See, she is unpacking.”

John looked down at the screen and thumbed it to pass to the next pictures. In all of them the same red-haired woman smiled at the camera showing off rooms, boxes, the window view and–

“ You've got a cat now?” John said, amused, watching the video  he had accidentally started to  play. Harry had a disastrous history with cats.

“Oh, the things we do for love, John,” she sighed dramatically, her face changing quickly into mirth again. “The little shit loves me, I'll have you know. We are a nice family,” she said.

Even though her eyes were soft, John could feel the power of  that  sentence. Harry really had got her life together. It was such a great thing to see, it filled his heart with love for his sister – a love he had overlooked for most of the last  few years.

He smiled , squeezing her hand affectionately.

Choosing to meet  up with  Harry had been the right thing to do.

 

* * *

 

John held himself tensely against the cab window. In the back of his mind the thought of jumping through the glass didn't seem too crazy. Seemed like a good way to solve his problems.

Sighing, he rubbed his forehead and looked down at the screen of his phone. John tried to convince himself that he was checking the time, but the truth was that Sherlock hadn't contacted  him  the whole day and it bothered him.

Apparently, after just a few days being back at Baker Street, John was already used to having the detective around most of the time.

It wasn't as if he didn't have reasons to be worried. They were all in danger as far as John was concerned. Just the possibility of not being around when Sherlock could need him –

God, he couldn't even think about that.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. He was too old to grow hysterical right now, he told himself, gloomily. Mycroft would contact him if they needed him.

He looked at his phone again, just to make sure it had service.

The closer the cab got to the airport, the smaller John's heart felt in his chest. He wasn't ready to see Mary again, he wasn't ready to – oh god –  _kiss_ her again.

He wasn't ready to break her heart. Or maybe he was and that was exactly the problem.

John had managed to spend the whole day ignoring the fact that he had no idea of how to go about having this conversation with her. He couldn't just blurt out that he didn't want to marry her anymore, it didn't work like that. He was an adult, for God's sake. And what could he say? He couldn't simply tell her the truth.

And would he be able to face her again after all this time and pretend things were the same?

He wouldn't. He knew that much. John was able to keep national secrets while being tortured, but he couldn't lie to save his own arse in a situation like this .

And Mary wasn't stupid. Maybe she would take one look at John and know that something was wrong. He could already see himself trying to make up shitty excuses to justify his behaviour and looking more and more like a complete twat.

Was there any reasonable way to tell her  _hey we aren't going to get married anymore_ and  _hey I'll still live here with you so you aren't killed by a random guy you know nothing about_ ?

“Hey, mate!” The cabbie raised his voice.

John frowned at him.

“We're here,” the guy said, sounding annoyed. Maybe it hadn't been the first time he tried to get John to listen to him.

John paid the driver and hopped out of the car. London had become grey and sad, or maybe it was just him.

He sped up his pace until he found the right entrance. He was still a few minutes early, and it was better this way. It gave him some time to prepare himself.

As if he would ever be prepared to this.

“There you are!”

The sweetness of the tone made John cringe instinctively. He thanked God his back  was turned.

_Fuck_ , he had thought he had more time.

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. This was his life, his happiness. He had to do what he had to do.

“Hi, Mary.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHAT.
> 
> I'm so embarrassed. I have to thank this person who let this comment down here on my last chapter:  
> "Omgosh! Please don't leave it like this!! We need a happy ending for our boys! It doesn't matter how long you've been gone. Just come back!"
> 
> And they are right. I had this chapter ready but I was embarrassed and so afraid to post it because you know how it goes... So long has passed and I kept getting more and more embarrassed. But then a few weeks ago I felt up for writing and wrote a fanfic in another universe... And writing, it just catches up to me sometimes. So anyway.
> 
> John and Sherlock, they deserve that I finish this. The only promise I can make is I WILL MAKE THE EFFORT. I'm a shit. But these two characters, they deserve it.
> 
> Thank you, lovely person who was lovely.

**Author's Note:**

> I have to thank [achipelago](http://archiveofourown.org/users/archipelago/pseuds/archipelago) for being the Sam to my Frodo in all writing things, for always having a word to cheer me up and for coming along with me on this. You should check out her Teenlock, by the way.
> 
> If you'd like to chat about this plot, or about of the show, come talk to me on tumblr: [sureaintmebabe.tumblr.com](http://sureaintmebabe.tumblr.com)  
> I really love to ramble about billions of theories, and it would be my pleasure.


End file.
